Intercept

by Patrick Robinson

  SEA CONDITIONS on the Gulf of Maine were choppy but not rough as they ploughed across the long swells, which form out here where the Atlantic washes up into the wide, 120-mile-long Bay of Fundy, which divides Nova Scotia from the eastern coast of New Brunswick.

  Yarmouth, their ultimate destination on the southwest headland, stands adjacent to Dennis Point, the largest commercial fishing wharf in Atlantic Canada. Over a thousand fishermen and women make their living there, fishing for a variety of ground fish and shell fish, most notably lobster. It is also home to a fine trawler fleet.

  Other large sport recreation boats cater for the tourist industry. And heavy tonnage foreign vessels are often brought here for servicing and repairs. Because out beyond the safe harbors of Nova Scotia, in the great waters of the North Atlantic, conditions can be very rugged, even for the best-built commercial boats.

  Halfway to Nova Scotia, Yousaf finally appreciated that he hadn’t been much help so far, but he now ventured to ask Ibrahim if he had a plan. He was unsurprised by his colleague’s irritatation. “I do not have a precise strategy,” Ibrahim said, rather grandly, “except to get off this ferry, and get through Canadian customs and immigration.

  “Ports like this are used to dealing with a large number of cars and passengers, and they are not very strict, simply because so many people are going back to the USA tonight. That’s why I bought us return tickets on the five o’clock ferry, to show them, if they ask.”

  Yousaf was forced to agree that had been a bit of a master stroke. “And you remember, Yousaf,” Ibrahim said, “our passports are perfectly in order. They both have legal stamps showing where and when we entered the United States. Also when we must leave. Our student visas are also valid. They both specify our Western degrees, mine from Harvard, yours from London University. Now you should go and sit somewhere else.”

  Yousaf wandered off, and for a while stood at the rail, gazing into the distance off the south-facing starboard beam. He had to admit it. Ibrahim had been a very fine leader, although he had no idea how he could have been so careless as to allow the bomb to go off three hundred yards before the school bus reached its destination. And the more Yousaf thought about it, the more troubled he became. Ibrahim had said the bombs would explode when he himself detonated them. It was not just one bomb it was many, to be laid by our men all over the school. How come they all went off at once? I know Ibrahim did not explode them, because I was sitting next to him. I also know there were no timed-charges because I helped to make every one of them. And I know they do not go off on impact. Even if the bus had crashed, the bombs would not have detonated.

  Yousaf was puzzled. Something had set them off. He understood that. But it surely was not a member of his team. Because there was nothing to set them off, except for Ibrahim’s remote control, and he himself had been holding that from the time they left the farm. So what was it? Yousaf did not know.

  The problem exercised him so greatly, he waited another half-hour, and with the Nova Scotia coastline well in sight, he went back and sat next to Ibrahim and asked him quietly, “Do you know what it was that set off our bombs so long before we intended them to detonate?”

  “I have thought of little else since it happened,” replied the terrorist leader. “And all I know is, there’s nothing we constructed or fitted to the bomb-boxes that could possibly have set them off. Nothing. They were made to explode when my remote controller sent in the electronic pulse for which they were built. If you’d dropped a building on that bus, the bombs would not have gone off.”

  “Well, what could it have been?” asked Yousaf, vacantly.

  “They must have been exploded by another device.”

  “You mean someone else exploded our bomb?”

  “I do, because there cannot be any other explanation if we didn’t do it.”

  “You mean someone must have dropped a bomb on our bus?”

  “No. That would be impossible, because it would have required a low-flying fighter plane, and we’d have seen it.”

  “Then someone fired a guided missile across the academy park, and it went straight through the side of the bus and blew the boxes of ammonium nitrate?”

  “No. That’s almost, but not quite, impossible. Although the American authorities could have achieved that very easily. They only needed to call in their all-powerful military. But they would not have done that. They’d have dealt with the whole problem at the farm, charged in with a hundred troops, blown the bus, and the barn, and the house, and then shot all of us.”

  “Bastards,” muttered Yousaf, “Damn bastards.”

  The huge CAT superboat, with its aerodynamic swept front end, continued racing across the water, and she ran smoothly, even with the short chop to the surface as there was today. Yousaf returned to his own seat and sat down thoughtfully, understanding there was one more barrier to cross, Canadian immigration, and they were home free, out of the United States.

  By now he could see the coastline, and the headland of Yarmouth, jutting out, hiding the port from the ships making entry from the west. The CAT ferry with its shallow draft came roaring up to the jutting point of land and swerved hard to port for the ten-minute run up to the harbor in calm waters.

  When it docked, there were long lines of passengers disembarking and a long line of automobiles trying to crawl out from the bowels of the ship. Because there was so much congestion, those holding U.S. or Canadian passports were usually waved through swiftly, especially those who were obviously returning that evening.

  Ibrahim was among the first in line, and handed over his Pakistani passport and his student visa.

  “Returning today?” asked the immigration officer.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Ibrahim, offering his ticket.

  The officer stamped the passport, and waved him through. It was the same with Yousaf eight minutes later. “Have a nice visit,” said the official. With that, the two terrorists had officially left the United States of America.

  Ibrahim knew their destination was ultimately the fishing docks at Dennis Point, where he hoped to buy a couple of passages to Greenland or Iceland or somewhere else halfway across the north Atlantic. He still had a few thousand dollars tucked in the bottom of his leather bag and decided to board a very crowded bus headed that way. Yousaf only just managed to get on.

  The docks were busy, with trawlers coming and going. Two large freighters were moored in the harbor, and Ibrahim learned they were in for repairs but couldn’t pay the bill; everyone was awaiting money from the shipping company’s Moscow headquarters.

  The ship with most activity was moored alongside: Odessa, a two-hundred-foot Russian trawler from the Murmansk Fleet, characteristically rusty, in need of paint. Ibrahim went to see the captain, a heavyset, lifelong trawlerman named Igor Destinov. He spoke chronically broken English, but understood this Arabian-looking character was trying to hitch a ride to somewhere. To him it sounded like anywhere, and such men were dangerous. Igor, however, was not concerned about that. He was concerned only about the price.

  He explained as best he could, that he was on a 1,500 mile journey up to the Greenland port of Nuuk on the west coast, 160 miles south of the Arctic Circle. There he was transferring fifty tons of refrigerated Atlantic cod to another Murmansk vessel, the Gorky. After that he was going around Cape Farewell, and across the southern waters of the Denmark Strait to Iceland. He expected to be in Nuuk in five days, and in Iceland six days later.

  Also he was not in the habit of taking on passengers who may be wanted by the coastguard or the police in the United States or Canada. “You don’t care where we’re going!” he bellowed. “That means you and your friend been very bad boys, and that’s not good for Igor. HA! HA! HA!”

  Ibrahim cooly asked, “Is there a price you would accept for such a risk?”

  “Depends how bad you are!” laughed the Russian seaman. “You commit minor crime like rape or drunk, I’d probably take you for five hundred. You do something fucking terrible like mu
rder a police I make that five thousand.”

  Ibrahim could not help himself laughing. “We just got mixed up in some terrorist attack that didn’t even happen,” he joked. “No one got hurt or anything.”

  “But how do I know you’re not telling the truth. Say I take you, and you blow up my fucking ship, what then?”

  “Unlikely,” said Ibrahim. “Neither of us can swim.”

  This almost reduced Igor to rubble, he was laughing so hard. But then he said, “Tell you what, I don’t know you, and I wouldn’t take you for a thousand dollars because you might cause me big trouble.”

  “How about three thousand for both of us, all the way to Iceland?”

  “That sounds like a nice deal for Igor,” he said. “You pay before we leave. I not trust terrorist. My aunt got killed by Chechen maniacs.”

  “I pay now. Cash,” said Ibrahim. “And I’d like to move into a cabin right away.”

  “You give Igor nice bundle of U.S. greenback worth three thousand, you can have mine,” said the master of the Odessa. “Fuck me, yes. Go fetch your friend.”

  Ibrahim and Igor shook hands, and the Russian accepted the thirty hundred dollar bills, which Ibrahim handed over. Then he left the ship to walk down the jetty and collect Yousaf from the dockside diner. They were ensconced in the ship by 3 p.m., and Ibrahim had no intention of going ashore again until they were on the cold shores of Iceland. Also he had no idea where Iceland was.

  MACK BEDFORD stayed in close touch with Captain Ramshawe and Bob Birmingham, and they were all agreed that the former SEAL commander may as well remain at home, near a telephone, for the moment when Ibrahim and Yousaf broke cover, as they surely would. At that point they would decide a proper course of action.

  Meanwhile both the NSA and the CIA were extremely grateful to him for almost single-handedly deciphering the intercept of the signal from Pakistan, foiling the terrorist plot against Canaan Academy, and taking out two of the four most wanted men from Guantanamo. All in secret, without leaving a trace.

  The first moment they had a fix on Ibrahim Sharif, and Yousaf Mohammed, the entire security force of the United States would be at Mack’s disposal. They had just been witness to both the capabilities and intentions of these lunatics, which had confirmed the wisdom of their decision to have them killed.

  Also, there was no one in the United States legal system who believed there was any military or government involvement whatsoever in the deaths of Abu Hassan Akbar and Ben al-Turabi. They had, after all, blown themselves up; no third party was even suspected, never mind named.

  Mack Bedford’s performance had been superlative. He and Anne had dinner together that second evening he was home, while Tommy stayed overnight with friends in Bath.

  It was a long way from summer, but Mack always grilled outside until the first snow appeared, usually in the first week of November. Tonight he fixed one of his Down East masterworks: Lightly grilled swordfish steaks he’d been given by a lifelong friend, Brad Andre, skipper of a local dragger. He’d landed it only that morning on a long-line in deep water out beyond the Seguin Light. Brad had sold the huge fish to a restaurant agent for a fortune, but before he let it go, he cut two prime steaks, one for his own family, one for Mack’s. He’d dropped it off on the way home—just walked in and placed it in the fridge, with a note scrawled on the white wrapping paper: “First one of these I’ve caught for three years! Four hundred pounder. Took 45 minutes to land him. Sonofabitch! Brad.”

  Mack marinated the fish in herbs and olive oil, and grilled it over charcoal. One turn only to brown both sides, and served with melted butter and parsley. He and Anne shared the steak and a bottle of California chablis and retired early to bed.

  YOUSAF AND IBRAHIM were given the choice of having dinner with the twelve-strong crew or by themselves at the end of the galley. They chose the latter because practically anything they had to say was sufficiently private to put them both in the slammer for many years, if overheard by the wrong people.

  And it set a precedent. They always ate by themselves and did not fraternize with anyone, not even Igor, who reasoned their three thousand bucks had bought them as much privacy as they wanted.

  During the meal, Yousaf once more broached the prickly subject of the bomb. “Any more ideas?” he asked.

  And Ibrahim replied, “Just a few.” For a few minutes there was silence, and then the terrorist leader spoke again, “I don’t think anyone bombed the bus from the air, or hit it with a Stinger missile. If we start by considering that was the biggest thing by far that went wrong, we should then go back and examine everything that went wrong. Try and get a pattern. Now, what was the first thing? Come on, Yousaf. Think.”

  “Well, I can’t see it has anything to do with the bomb. But I suppose it was when Ali got in a fight with some local guy in the woods.”

  “Correct. Except he may not have been some local guy. We don’t know who he was. We only know he arrived more or less the same time as Ali, who was on his first-ever watch, and ended up snapping his hip socket almost in half. That wasn’t a local guy, Yousaf. That was an expert in unarmed combat. Like we’re supposed to be.”

  “Okay,” said Yousaf. “Then what?”

  “Next night, late, in comes Abu Hassan saying some huge guy, bigger and stronger than King Kong, flattened him in the farm yard and then vanished.”

  “Okay. Next.”

  “Mike, who’s supposed to be on guard, comes in with a broken jaw, and says some guy hit him on the chin with a sledgehammer. Was it the same guy who broke Ali’s hip, and flattened Abu? I think probably. And why did I not put these three incidents together? Because I must be very, very stupid. But I take full blame.”

  “None of us put them together,” said Yousaf. “They all seemed so separate, unconnected. Like accidents.”

  “Which bring us to the most serious item. Do you remember the night Ben went back to the bus for the school floor plan?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well he came back and said quite definitely the barn door was not locked. No chain. No padlock. He didn’t say maybe. He said for sure. So I asked Asif to go out and check, and when he came back, he said the barn was locked like always with the padlock and chain.”

  “And who was right?”

  “They were both right. There was no chain and padlock on the door when Ben said there wasn’t. He might have been a bit flakey. But he wasn’t that flakey. When Asif headed out there about ten minutes later, there was now a chain and padlock on the door.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know what I think? Someone cut our padlock off during the previous three days while we were working and replaced it with one of his own, almost identical. He left it there unlocked, with the key in. When our last man locked up in the pitch dark, he was locking a different padlock. And the intruder outside had a spare key, which allowed him to enter our barn any time he wished, all through the night when we were asleep.

  “Except for once. That’s when Mike walked around the barn and this character smashed him to the ground, broke his jaw, perhaps with a sledgehammer, and then vanished.”

  “I’m trying to fit all this together,” said Yousaf.

  “That’s very simple,” said Ibrahim. “On one of those nights, probably the last one, he enters the barn, maybe with a helper, and they rig a bomb up under our school bus, with a remote control just like ours.

  “And then they waited, hidden in the trees on the school grounds. When we arrived, they detonated their own bomb, which blew our ammonium nitrate, killed all of our people, and wrecked our attack on Canaan Academy.”

  “You can’t be serious?”

  “Can’t I? You can trust me on this. I have considered the problem from every angle. There can be no other explanation. It was that English bastard with the pipe who said, ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, only the truth remains.’”

  “Okay. You have solved the practical action of the problem. But now I ask you the real question: How
did anyone know what we were going to do, where we were, and what our target was?”

  “And that’s the one no one can answer,” said Ibrahim. “Because that could only have been discovered by someone who tapped into our most secret conversations. And I don’t know how that could have happened, or who could have done it.”

  “I suppose we could have had someone on our tail in Bradford,” said Yousaf, “or even Mexico. There were messages passed from Peshawar and Islamabad. We don’t know how secure Faisal al-Assad was. And we definitely don’t know if anyone mentioned Canaan Academy.”

  “Whoever it was must have been connected with the U.S. Government,” said Ibrahim. “Because only governments, or very big organizations, can operate like that. But this group did not behave like a government. They behaved like gangsters. There is no end to my hatred of the Great Satan.”

  “Or mine,” said Yousaf. “I did not think it was possible to hate anyone as I hate them.”

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, as the sun rose out of the Atlantic, the two terrorists slept soundly in their bunks on board the Odessa. It was 6:30 on the U.S. mainland, and two young girls riding their ponies in the pine woods just north of Bar Harbor discovered the Chevy that had belonged to the Bangor bank manager, Jed Ridley.

  Fortunately, they did not discover the bank manager himself, who was resting in peace under the salad in the back. But the vehicle was in such an outrageous place, driven into heavy undergrowth almost out of sight, the girls decided to tell someone. The Chevy was empty and apparently abandoned.

  They took their time, and told their parents at around 8 a.m. after they returned from the stables. By the time the police had responded it was nine o’clock, and they finally hauled the vehicle out at 9:45. That was when they discovered the missing Mr. Ridley lying dead on the floor in the back.

  A police ambulance took the body back to Bangor, and the announcement hit all the news channels by noon. No one was especially excited that Mr. Ridley was dead, or that he had been found in his car just outside elegant Bar Harbor, summer playground of the rich. It was that he’d been shot dead with one bullet—and that he had disappeared from the same supermarket parking lot where an old Dodge truck, which had been used by two known terrorists, had been abandoned.