'A' for Argonaut

by Michael J. Stedman

  “What happened to Maran in Cabinda?” the blonde asked. “I couldn’t believe what I heard. He was too good to let his team get ambushed like that.”

  “He was, but Maran’s op was a threat: a rescue of some leftist Save-the-Worlders, American U.N. observers, taken hostage. Maran had already infiltrated into Boyko territory. If he succeeded, it would have blown our operation,” Pajak explained.

  “Maran’s an asshole. No alternative,” the towhead surmised.

  “An idiot,” V.D. joined.

  “OK. So he’s crippled‌—‌disgraced, thrown out. That didn’t work. Now what? He’s back in our faces,” the blonde frowned.

  “Not for long. He’s with Chu. Boyko’s on him. He’s a corpse.” Pajak vowed.

  BACK OUT ON WISCONSIN Avenue Pajak shaded his eyes from the intense sunlight, pulled out his sat phone and dialed up a number in Timbuktu.

  “Did you get that shipment?”

  “Like clockwork. Mustafa and the al-Shabaab bless you with all their love. The Niger flows gently through Bamako in Mali. The ricin is being readied to distribute through our channels all over America,” answered Abu Mahmoud al-Ebrahyim. His words referred to weapons designed to introduce poisonous ricin vapor through the elementary school HVAC systems in the country’s twelve wealthiest communities, seats of American power like Short Hills, New Jersey, outside of New York City; Bethesda, Maryland, outside of the Washington Beltway; and Hillsborough, California, outside of San Francisco. Al Qaeda’s planners figured that a ricin attack preceding their economic terrorism assault would be the one-two punch to bring America to its knees.

  Holding influence over the Somali group al-Shabaab Youth Mujahideen Movement, al-Ebrahyim’s own cell was headquartered in Mali; he was at the forefront of a global assault on the United States and reported directly to Abu Mustafa al-Masri, al Qaeda’s man in Iran. His work with Vangaler was part of the Youth Movement’s plan to finance the establishment of armed sleeper cells throughout the world, particularly in the United States. Their expressed goal was “to establish an Islamic caliphate after eradicating the State of Israel, throwing the west out of the Middle East, invading the United States, and killing the infidels.” They were leaving no stone unturned.

  THE LATE AUGUST SUN pierced the picture windows in the back of the lounge at Clyde’s of Tyson’s Corner, a popular restaurant on Leesburg Pike in Vienna, Virginia. Brigadier General Bull Luster met with Cole Martin, Lieutenant General Alexander Stassinopoulos and Major General Randy Baltimore. They sat in a private booth. Above their heads, hanging from the ceiling, a toy train circled the restaurant.

  Luster sliced into his grilled Porterhouse pork chop. Baltimore ate chopped shrimp salad. The din of the other patrons dampened their conversation; they leaned close to one another.

  “Let’s get right down to it,” Luster said. “Maran’s mission was to get those hostages out. The first responsibility, however, is always to bring the team back, intact if possible. Maran failed.”

  “Why was that, General? Why do you think one of our most decorated ops failed?” Baltimore asked.

  “You tell me. You’re the one who ordered him to retreat,” Luster said.

  “He believed that the terrorists were unaware of Task Force 9909. Our satellite intelligence disputed that conclusion. We ordered him to pull out. Maran took it into his own hands.”

  “Given our political history there, I understand his thinking. Not that I agree, but we’ve been smack in the middle of a pile of shit in the region since we let Bombe take over,” Martin said.

  “So we freeze their assets in the banks and they move into diamonds,” Baltimore continued.

  “Diamonds, near cash, are easier to move around than truckloads of currencies. Concentrated wealth, retain their value. We know these assholes’re in Timbuktu, Mali. African base. Pretty far from Cabinda. Not as far’s Kabul to New York! Taliban, Hezbollah, Hamas. All those guys have moved into diamonds. It’s one big glitter orgy,” Luster charged.

  “Nothing has changed. Why do you think so many of these diamond dealers on Avenue Inga in Mbuji-Mayi or the Petit Marché in Bakua Bowa, are Lebanese, Pakistani, or Iraqi‌—‌Muslims? Diamonds always belonged to Congo, never to the Congolese. Bombe. I guess we figure if it doesn’t matter, why not make sure the dictator of the day is our dictator?” Luster’s point made sense.

  “Like Mubarak?” Stassinopoulos sneered. “We’ve used fear of Islam to prop the worst dictators in the Arab world since Nasser’s revolution in 1952 and it is those same dictators that have fanned the flames against Egypt’s Muslim Brotherhood and its allies.”

  “Like Hezbollah in Lebanon or Hamas in Gaza?” Martin interjected.

  “You bet,” Stassinopoulos said. “For more than 60 years, the Brotherhood has been illegal, but it has tremendous support from the most democratic factions of Egyptian society, the trade unions, professional associations, local and regional government, even many in parliament, not to mention a quiet band of military leaders. We have always preferred dictatorships that guarantee our access to their oil and let Israel encroach on Arab soil in Palestine.”

  “Funny to hear you talk like that, Stash,” Luster smirked. “Strange viewpoint. Don’t forget their history,” he continued.

  “Going back to the 1930s,” he said, “long before World War II, the Muslim Brotherhood’s charter was laid out like a blueprint for Arab Naziism. Hassan al-Banna, its founder, backed Hitler and railed against the U.S. and its allies, calling for the return of the Caliphate,” Luster added.

  “They are masters in working the shadows, removed from military conflict but covertly managing it. Past history says they will keep their powder dry for now until they think their time is ripe. It’s a testimony to the self-interested, blind eye approach of the Europeans that more of them won’t acknowledge it.”

  “We’ve made some mistakes, not for lack of trying, General,” Baltimore snapped. “Why do you think we’ve got several thousand mercs, former Special Forces, guarding those oil fields in Cabinda?”

  “Mercenaries. Long Bow. Stash, you got yourself a good deal there,” Luster said.

  “Valentine has it right; we are protecting U.S. interests with the President’s express approval,” Stassinopoulos said.

  “You bet. Maybe U.S. interests aren’t as moral as freedom for sixty million Egyptians, particularly since this could spread throughout the Muslim world,” Baltimore said.

  “Shit, solder,” Luster almost spit. “You sound like Noam Chomsky or Howard Zinn, the radical eggheads from Cambridge.”

  “Zinn died,” Martin pointed out sounding less than distraught.

  “Pity,” Luster eulogized.

  “Look, you sound like idiots,” Luster shot. “You people and your elite allies on the left forget a few things.” From past experience, they knew what he was getting at: things like the entire Arab world’s armies attacking Israel as soon as the Jews declared independence for it in 1947, things like Hamas’ Iranian-supplied Grad missiles fired from Gaza on innocent Jewish civilians in Sderot, Ashkelon and Be’er Sheva, suicide bombings everywhere, the Muslims’ expressed vow to kill Jews and bury America, multiple bombings of Americans and American facilities.

  “You’re talking strictly about the Islamists,” Baltimore responded.

  “Hair-splitting,” Luster spat furiously. “How many Muslims worldwide celebrate the mass murder of 3,000 innocent souls in the 9/11 New York Twin Towers massacre? And get support from their imams? What kind of religious values tolerate murderers videotaping themselves cutting a Jew’s head off while they scream adulations to their God? Stand by silent while their religion sets world historical records for death and violence: 17,000 Islamic terror attacks since 2001. More than 31 attacks which killed 117 people and maimed 255 more just last week?”

  Martin joined Luster’s diatribe. He was livid. “Look, we support the rights of anyone on Earth to live the life and religion they choose as long as they respect the same for everyone else
. We condemn religious intolerance of all kinds. But we have to draw the line on those who openly practice and promote madness, terrorism‌—‌mass murder and serial killing. Whether that’s confined to what we are euphemistically calling ‘Islamists’ or to Muslims in general I can’t figure out. And their imams aren’t helping me.

  “What religion has an army of PR firms to promote charities tied by the Justice Department to terrorist groups like Hamas and Hezbollah, the Muslim Brotherhood?” he added.

  “What right does America have to force its religious morals and customs on other peoples of the world?” Stassinopoulos countered.

  “Christ, Stash! You, your liberal pals here have to stop genuflecting at the idol of political correctness and face up to the fact that not all philosophies are either beneficent or created equal, whether we’re talking about Islam in the Middle East or U.S. and U.N. appeasement in Angola,” Martin said. “We have to rid ourselves of our fear of critical thinking even when it appears on the surface to be so un-American. Sometimes the truth is harsh, even cruel.”

  “You have to ask: It might be creed, but is this brand of Islam a religion‌—‌or is it a political ideology?” Martin posited.

  “What are you talking about?” Luster guffawed. “Our National Intelligence Director, James Carlson himself, told the Senate Intel Committee that Egypt’s branch of the Muslim Brotherhood is secular, just an umbrella arm for a variety of movements.”

  “Sure, and Hezbollah in Lebanon isn’t in the process of staging a slow coup there and working with Iran to develop nuclear weapons for all the Islamists in the Middle East,” Martin said.

  “Have your little joke. President Valentine has inspired the country with a moral clarity that shines the way to bend the course of history to justice in the Middle East as well as in West Africa,” said Stassinopoulos.

  “Bush fought for freedom for Arabs in the Middle East. But he was ridiculed for it,” Martin observed. “That is the convoluted way our great nation is now divided. If we don’t change that, it will be our downfall.”

  “Come on. This is bullshit. What are we doing about Mack Maran, Cabinda?” Baltimore pressed.

  “I told you already,” Luster yelled. His voice began to tremble. “You’re right. Maran took matters into his own hands. A complete disaster.”

  “The Justice Department has opened a grand jury. The proceedings are secret. I know there is an indictment coming down on a Protestant minister,” Martin explained, looking from Baltimore to Stassinopoulos.

  “Ishmael Malik Johnson?” Baltimore asked.

  “Part of Justice’s case includes copies of a long series of Hope Valentine’s DR-2 campaign funding reports. Campaign contributions of fifteen million dollars were channeled through a series of PACs set up by Johnson and his cronies,” Martin said.

  “Point, there?” Baltimore asked.

  “Didn’t you introduce Stash to Johnson?” Luster followed.

  “Small world. But that doesn’t absolve Maran,” Baltimore insisted. “Aren’t a lot of your old buddies from SAWC milking it, getting more money working for us at Long Bow than they ever dreamed of?” Baltimore shot back.

  Luster bypassed the slur.

  “FINCEN’s working the case,” Martin added.

  Stash’s eyebrows shot up.

  FORTY-THREE

  Vienna, Virginia

  Back at FINCEN’s Vienna headquarters off Chain Bridge Road, Leslie Archer, the Director, stomped into Jack Connell’s office. Puzzled, Connell pushed back from his desk. He rose to greet his superior.

  The Director threw an internal report on the Chief’s desk.

  “You know this guy?” Before Connell answered, he ran through the files in his mind. Shit. The director was one of a rare few with access to NBES’ voluminous recordings. His job required that kind of top-level need-to-know access.

  “In essence, that’s an obituary, Jack,” the Director barked. “Your pal killed two U.S. agents in the process of arresting him in Antwerp. We know Maran is behind this diamond debacle. I hold you responsible if he gets away. One thing stands out. Everywhere we look in this diamond scam, we find Maran’s peckerprints. He’s messing with us. I don’t want to find out that you’re helping him!” He tossed another sheet of paper on the desk. Down the middle of the page, a list of words was hand-written.

  Diamonds

  Dolitz

  Panama

  Cartel

  Antwerp

  Tolkachevsky

  Vangaler

  Amber Chu

  Cabinda

  “And these,” blasted the Director. “NEBS sent this list of intercept triggers over to me. Says they were your codes, that you requisitioned the intercepts.” He glared at Connell.

  “Related, Les. They’re related,” Connell said. “First of all, I can’t explain what happened to our agents in Antwerp. You’ve made a bad mistake. Maran is not our target. He’s our key asset. He delivered up the lead on Dolitz, the money laundering tie-in to the diamond scam. He developed these triggers, isolated them as keyword strings that could only be used by conspirators in this case. I requisitioned NEBS to add them to PHALANX.”

  “Why didn’t you clear that through me?”

  “If this thing blows up in our faces, I wanted to protect you from being caught in the loop. No need of everyone taking collateral damage,” Connell said.

  “Well. I want to know everything. Tom Casey was a good man, a trusted agent, had a family, died in the line of duty. I need answers.”

  “I’m sorry. I know Maran. He’s a model soldier. All-American. When we get him back in, there’ll be a reckoning.”

  “Maran is a rogue. He does not work for us!” Archer exploded.

  “Actually, that’s probably not completely true. He’s ours. He’s always worked in the black for us. There’s no reason to believe he’s changed his spots.”

  Archer’s voice reverberated off the office walls. “Ours! In the black? Who else’ve you got out there spying for us on this case?”

  “Give me till tomorrow to answer that.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m waiting to hear from Cole Martin. He’ll have take for us, sources we don’t have.”

  “I hope you’re right! Or your career’s over.”

  “We haven’t had time to merge all of the intercepts into our database. I’ll have an answer when we do.”

  After Leslie Archer left his office, Connell called Cole Martin.

  “No one in any of our agencies bothered to search out-of-print South African gemstone journals for a link between Tolkachevsky and Dolitz. And it was right there to be downloaded,” he told his friend.

  “Unnn‌—‌believable,” Martin sighed.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Antwerp

  The sky was pink with dawn as they shot down the R10 towards Knokke-Heist.

  “Who the fuck are you? What are you doing here? How did you find me?” Amber demanded.

  “Why did Vangaler try to force you into his car?” Maran asked, equally insistent.

  “See? You stepped in to that situation with a great deal of confidence, in fact just like a superhero trained for violence. How do you know Vangaler? How do you know about Tony? What do you know about me?” She asked, in a voice riddled with anxiety.

  “I’m an investigative reporter, assignment on diamond smuggling. After doing some exhaustive research on diamond smuggling in Angola, the DRC, I found out a lot of things. Still have a lot of unanswered questions. You, Vangaler, and your mutual boss happen to be among them.”

  “You didn’t find that on websites.”

  “Sources. Compromised links.”

  “Sources, links?” Amber sniffed. “What kind?”

  “Trust me, Amber. I can help you. I’m your only chance. What can you tell me about Vangaler?”

  “I still don’t believe you,” she said.

  “Tell me about Vangaler,” Maran persisted.

  Amber looked at this man closely, a stranger. He w
as tall, good looking in a well-used kind of way, rugged, not rough. He gained stature when he walked with military bearing. She reached into her catalog of human psyches to place where he might fit in the spectrum. She decided he had something she could trust.

  “What do you know about him?” she asked.

  “I never heard of him before I took this assignment.”

  “What about you? What did you do before you became an investigative journalist?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “We’ve got time.”

  It wasn’t the right time to tell her the truth, so he lied. Oh, he was so good at it. Maran explained that the story he was working on started out as a piece for a specialized industry publication on diamond merchandising. As a way to insure widespread trade interest, the article, he told her, was to cover the entire spectrum of the industry, from mining to quality control and consumer purchasing.

  His cover story, like most, was true in part. He told her how he got an assignment on speculation, no advance fee, for a piece on diamond smuggling in Africa, conflict diamonds. How they supported terrorism and how his search led him to uncover her and her son’s story. It was an easy cover.

  “You hacked into Boyko’s e-mails?” she cried.

  “I want to know about Vangaler,” Maran insisted.

  “General Slang Vangaler, chief of the Ninja Crocodile militia. He’s Chief of SSI’s Ninjas, an army of lunatics, crazed kids he keeps hopped up on drugs. They keep everyone in the region under control. People say he’s Ugandan. I don’t know.”

  If he needed more information about Vangaler, he had come to the right place. She was ready to deal. Her face told him that she had become receptive. He felt her desperation.

  She continued. “The Ninja Crocodile Devil Men are Vangaler’s cult; they believe in witches, sorcery, superstitious answers to why bad things happen. A lot of bad things happen to them.”

  “What do they do?”

  “Vangaler has them all convinced that he’s a supernatural spirit who can show them how to win over evil. So, they kill and maim people he says are witches and devils…never mind; it’s too disgusting. Use your imagination.”