by James Ward
The door was answered by Lisa Raines who gave Susan a look that said ‘Go Away!’
“Hi, I’m Susan Deet. I work with Greg.” Susan fished in her purse for a business card.
“Greg’s resting,” Lisa declared coldly.
Susan observed the woman for a moment assessing the threat. She could smell Chinese food reheated in a microwave. She decided to blow by this person. “I have business that can’t wait,” she said in a slightly raised voice, staring into the hall beyond Lisa and placing a foot on the threshold.
Greg heard Susan’s voice and called from the living room, “Hi Susan. Come on in.”
Lisa gave her adversary a look universally understood between females. It said ‘don’t even think about moving in on me.’ Then she smiled and stepped aside with a gesture of feigned welcome. Susan flipped one right back at her that said ‘spare me, lady, I’m just a friend.’
Greg lay on the living room floor in khaki shorts and a tee shirt. He was propped up on two pillows under his chest. A small tray lay beside him on the floor. It held a dish of Chinese pork strips, red spare ribs and a glass of Coke. As Susan entered, shedding her jacket on a chair, Greg grinned, “Glad to see you Susie. Whazzup?”
“I decided to take you up on your invitation to pot luck,” Susan said, emphasizing the word ‘invitation’ for the benefit of the gatekeeper.
“Great!” Greg said, missing the point. “Susie, this is Lisa Raines, my neighbor next door. She’s been a great help for the last couple of days.
“I can see that,” replied Susan. She smiled as warmly as possible as she shook Lisa’s hand. It was time to offer a truce.
Lisa grinned as if to say, ‘truce accepted.’
“I’ll get you a plate,” she said cheerily.
Soon, the three seemed as if old friends, chatting about superfluous things.
At nine-thirty, Lisa finally got the point that Greg and Susan needed to talk privately about some work related thing. She collected the remains of the Chinese food and packed it away in the fridge. Then she appeared with a glass of water and two pills. “Be a good boy and take your chemicals,” she ordered.
Greg took the pills then giggled. “Hey Susie, this stuff would bring a lot of money on the street.”
“Ill see you bright and early Greg,” Lisa said, starting for the door. “Don’t you mess with that bandage now, you hear?
“I can’t thank you enough for all your caring Lisa,” Greg said sincerely.
“Caring is what we nurses do,” replied Lisa. “Good night Susan. Don’t keep him up too late.”
When they were alone, Greg gingerly rolled up on his side, wincing slightly at the pain. “Hey Susie, wanna see my wound?” he said, like a little boy with a prize booboo.
“No thanks,” she said holding up her palm. “I’ll leave that to the nurse.”
“So where were you in Canada?” he said cheerily, “You know I have a great friend who lives in Canada. She works for CSIS.”
Susan winced realizing that Greg had no clue what she was about to say.
“Carole Hinson,” she said simply.
“That’s her. Did I ever tell you about her?”
“Many times,” Susan replied. “To answer your question I was at the CSIS office in Ottawa today.”
“Wow. Did you see Carole? I mean, was she there?”
Susan sighed deeply. She dreaded the moment. “Greg, the reason I came to see you tonight is… well, I have bad news.” She held up her hand as if to block him from saying anything. She gazed at the floor and said simply, “Carole Hinson is dead.”
“Dead? Susie, how can that be?” Greg could not staunch the tears. His face became furrowed, staring at Susan in disbelief as the tears flowed.
Susan took his hand, sliding to the floor beside her colleague. Her empathy for Greg at this moment was so great she almost burst into tears herself. He sobbed uncontrollably. They lay together in a ball on the rug, Greg in a fetal position, Susan with her arm around him, her body pressed close in an effort to comfort him. Half an hour later, he finally just ran out of tears.
“I’m glad you could let it out,” she finally said.
Greg made a noise, sort of half way between a grunt and a groan. He stared vacantly into mid-air. Finally he managed to speak. “How did it happen?”
“In the line of duty,” she answered. “She gave all for her country, the same as you or I would like to think we would if faced with the choice.”
Greg whimpered slightly. “Was it quick?”
“Yes, shot in the head. She never felt the bullet.” Susan figured that was enough to tell him for now, purposely leaving out the gut wound or what might have led up to it.
Greg shifted and snuggled up closer to Susan. “Please don’t go for a while.” He closed his eyes and drifted off in thought.
Stroking his brow softly, she replied, “Don’t worry, I’ll stay as long as you like.”
_________
Ali bin Akram Ajir had come to realize that Amman was too hot a place for him to remain there any longer. A few of the paid informants used by the CIA also sold information to Ajir International Enterprises Ltd. on a regular basis. When he found out through one of them that the CIA in Amman was now involved, Ajir knew that he had to run. He shut down surveillance of Chris Taylor and made arrangements to be driven to Syria. From there, he could decide whether to go to Turkey or slip into Iraq, on the way to his final destination in Turkmenistan.
He put the little gold sack and its contents in his attaché and chained that to the wrist of his chief bodyguard. Together with a driver they set out on the road in an armored Range Rover. One hundred kilometers later near the Syrian border, six other Para-military vehicles joined the cortege. Soon, they had crossed discreetly and safely into Syria, thanks to good contacts and some well placed bribes. Ajir would spend the night at the home of an old friend near Damascus.
During the drive, he had time to reflect on the events of the past few days. Ajir himself had planned the ‘acquisition’ as he called it, just after receiving Nancy Kinnear’s report. She had spoken with Al Kafajy Trading Company before contacting Ajir. In that phone call, Ahmed had foolishly connected Al Kafajy’s mysterious invitation only sale in Amman with The Hand of Mohammed. Nancy had passed the information to Ajir hours before her unfortunate death.
The irony was that Ahmed had arranged a nice payment to Ajir’s group in return for the information. Nevertheless, Ajir now stood on the threshold of the biggest deal of his lifetime. He had identified three potential customers and had already received a positive reply from two. His plan was to complete the deal, close his trading company forever and vanish from the scene before Mohammed Al Kafajy could exact revenge. It was a bold and dangerous plan, but one that he could not resist trying. Every one of his peers in the international arms trade dreamed of becoming wealthiest and a hero of Islam at the same time. His would be the ultimate score.
_________
Charlie West got more frustrated by the minute. Steck had ordered a majority of the resources for Operation Retrieve to be used to identify the thieves who now had possession of The Hand of Mohammed. He had promised Steck a quick answer, confident in his ability to obtain information on the street in Amman. Now of a sudden the street had fallen silent.
Steck built an impressive information tree with the inputs received during the long afternoon. He and two analysts now stared at a large flat panel display in the main conference area. Each of them made quiet comments, as they moved the puzzle pieces into order. A factoid would be moved from one point on the timeline spreadsheet to another then after quiet consultation it would be moved back where it had been. Another would replace it, then be moved somewhere else. This part of the process was painfully slow and mentally exhausting to all concerned. However it usually yielded information that allowed great leaps forward in any operation.
When Charlie entered the room to express his frustration, Steck was finally becoming satisfied that they had establi
shed some paths to follow. He directed one of the analysts to take a digital snapshot of the tree and forward it to Langley and to eighteen other CIA offices across the Muslim world.
“In your cover memo, request feedback from everybody who sees this,” he declared to the analyst. “We need every scrap of information we can get.”
Charlie informed Steck about the sudden disconnect from the usual information sources in Amman. Steck could see the angst in Charlie’s eyes. “Come on, Charlie, let’s take a break,” he said. “I could use some fresh air.”
As they found and donned their jackets to wear against the cool night air, Steck remarked, “You know, Charlie, when the street goes cold it’s usually because there is some player orchestrating things, probably someone with a hell of a lot more local influence than we have.”
Charlie acknowledged that, while expressing his hopes that they would find and unseal someone’s lips soon.
The two men stepped into the street. As they did, Charlie half-whispered “Got it!” He put his arm into Steck’s back and steered him straight ahead. Steck got the message. It meant ‘keep walking straight and don’t look around.’
After they had walked a block in silence, Charlie felt secure enough to talk. “The office is under surveillance by one of the top operatives in Amman. It’s a guy named Rashid. He was across the street from us when we came out of the building just now.”
“What does that mean?” Steck asked.
“I don’t know exactly,” Charlie replied, “but it gives me a lead to follow.”
They turned left onto a side street and gradually worked their way back towards the Anwhar Trading Company office. They took another left and were less than a block from the office. The cool night air had refreshed both men, who were walking in silence, each of them now thinking fresh thoughts.
Steck sensed something out of place, as if there might be someone observing them, someone other than the guy across the street. As they came closer to Charlie’s office it became apparent that Rashid had disappeared.
“I don’t like this.” Steck declared.
Charlie had noticed Rashid’s absence as well. The street was deserted, except for one car that sat with engine running two buildings away. Charlie fished in his pocket for the small electronic sender that could be used to unlock the door. No sense wasting time fumbling with a door key, he thought.
Safe inside, they looked at one another. “That was creepy,” Steck offered.
Charlie nodded assent. Steck returned to the conference room. Charlie hustled up a stairway to the third floor and peered out the window from a darkened room. The source of their shared feeling stepped out of a doorway a hundred yards up the street and walked slowly down the sidewalk towards the car. Reaching it, the figure stepped in and the car sped away.
Charlie West was a resourceful man. He trotted down the hall to a closet, opened the door and checked to see if the surveillance camera had been tampered with. It was functioning normally, scanning the street up and down as ever. He took the elevator to the basement, where he quickly made a copy of the street surveillance from the past half-hour.
Steck had just begun to read the first replies to the memo he had directed. It was from the CIA bureau in Islamabad, just an acknowledgement of receipt. Charlie walked into the room, placing a memory stick at Steck’s side. “Bob, I’ve got the stalker we both sensed on video. Let’s have a look.”
Smiling broadly Steck replied, “Charlie, you’re the best!”
CHAPTER 26
Randy Pullin personally met Muhammed Saleem Rafiq at the Denver airport, whisking him into a car to be driven about sixty miles to the heliport at a ranch just outside Fort Collins, Colorado. He had financed the heliport for his friend’s ranch to have a secure remote site for Free Nation’s comings and goings in Colorado. They boarded a Robinson R44 helicopter with white and yellow markings. The side doors were marked in big letters MARTIN RANCH, but the machine really belonged to Free Nation. They were soon airborne, heading toward eastern Wyoming.
On the way the two old friends spoke through their headset link, the only way to communicate over the noise of the machine. The pilot flew east, picking up Interstate 25 which he kept to his left as they sped north. He vectored around Warren Air Force Base to the east and north then picked up I-25 again, following it past Buffalo, where he picked up I-90.
A stop was made in Sheridan to take on fuel and pick up some supplies for the post. They arrived at Free Nation about dusk, the setting sun painting the hills around with its peculiar and beautiful Wyoming sunset glow.
“This is a most beautiful place,” remarked Saleem as they settled in to Colonel Randy’s office. “It is impractical though, so far away from everything.”
“Part of the plan to keep us out of harm’s way,” joked Randy. “It provides the kind of seclusion you guys can only find hundreds of klics into the mountains of Peshawar.”
“Hmm,” Saleem said absently, reaching for a big red apple. “These days that area is not suitable either.” He started to tuck the apple into his bag but Randy interjected.
“You don’t need that apple, Saleem. There’s plenty of fresh fruit in your quarters and I’ve instructed one of our cooks, who is your countryman, to provide you with proper Pakistani Muslim meals.”
“Thanks so much!” Saleem replied. “When traveling, you just don’t know what will be available.”
“I’ll join you for some of that good food, if you don’t mind,” offered Randy. “That way we can get down to business say, in about an hour?”
“That would be fine,” said Saleem, standing up.
Randy summoned an orderly who took Saleem’s baggage and bade him follow. Saleem settled in to the guest house just across the way from Randy’s office. He grabbed a quick nap. He would need it as he expected to work well into the night.
After dinner at the dining table set before a crackling fire, Randy summoned eighteen hand-picked men and officers. They arranged themselves in various sofas and chairs around the guest cottage’s living room.
“We have a new and most important mission to perform, gentlemen,” Colonel Randy began. “A priceless piece of antiquity and relic of utmost significance to the Muslim religion was abducted by an unknown thief or group of thieves just a few days ago in Amman, Jordan. Unwittingly, we were involved in its disappearance from the United States and its transport to Amman. Now we have learned that in the wrong hands this item could ignite at the very least a bitter struggle among bad guys in the Islamic world and at worst a worldwide conflict of some unimaginable sort.”
Some of the men shuffled in their seats. They heard Colonel Randy’s words but also saw the concern on his face. One mumbled to the man next to him, “I’ve never seen the old man this worried.”
“I heard that, Barry,” Pullin remarked, staring at the man. “You’re right. I’ve never been this worried. Since we were unfortunately involved in its disappearance, we have a duty to the principles of Free Nation and to the preservation of peace in the world to find and retrieve it. This will be job one for all until we accomplish the mission. You are our best men. Each of you is relieved of all other responsibilities and will concentrate on this mission until further notice, under my personal direction.”
“What is this thing, Colonel? What are we looking for?” asked one of the officers.
“The object is called The Hand of Mohammed,” replied Colonel Randy. He turned to Saleem. “This is Muhammed Saleem Rafiq, our colleague and friend. Some of you know him from past operations. He is a good guy. He will brief you on the object, its history, its significance and symbolism in the Muslim world. He is also developing ideas as to where to look for it. He will work side by side with me for the duration of this mission. You will all understand my concern from what you are about to hear. Take it to heart. We must not fail this mission. Saleem thinks that if we do fail, the word ‘Armageddon’ may not be inappropriate for the result. I don’t fully understand that, but I trust Saleem.”
Saleem stood and arranged some papers prepared for the briefing. He handed out some material to each man while addressing them.
“Colonel Randy has asked me to give you all an overview and opinion about The Hand of Mohammed. Since most of you are not of my faith, I will begin with an explanation of Islam and tell of the life of the prophet. To do that we will begin with the story of….”
While Saleem spoke, Pullin slipped out of the cottage and double-timed the short distance to his office. He rang up Grundstrom, pacing impatiently while the secure link beeped and squawked its way to Amman. Finally the connection was made. “Gunny, I need a report.” He demanded.
“Brandt’s here and we are both still allowed access to Steck’s operations center, Colonel. He considers us members of his team.” Grundstrom sounded confident and in charge.
“Any progress, any leads thus far?” Pullin sounded all business.
Grundstrom outlined Operation Retrieve. “This guy Steck is impressive, Colonel. He has gathered a lot of information and analyzed it well. We have some hypotheses but we have not yet identified who has the item. Whoever it is knows who and where we are, though. Steck and the local director have been followed. They think an attempt was made to take both of them out last evening but the guy got away.”
“Listen carefully, Gunny. I want you and Brandt to locate a guy named Chris Taylor. He will probably be at the office of Al Kafajy Trading Company in Amman. If you can confirm he’s there, put him under surveillance and let me know you found him.”
“Colonel,” answered Grundstrom, “Taylor’s the guy who gave the presentation about the item to all those potential buyers. He’s here, in Amman, staying at the Royal Amman Hotel.”
“Is he under surveillance by Steck’s team?”
“Yes sir. One of Charlie West’s agents has him.”
Pullin paused. He remembered Charlie West from years back. “Gunny, I want you to get a photo of Taylor and anybody with him. Do it without Charlie or Steck’s knowledge. Send it to me as soon as you can.” Pullin had a hunch Taylor was smart enough to hire some big gun to help him retrieve the object. He was keen to know who that might be.
