The Honorable Knight

by Patrick John Donahoe

  Thirty

  Jacques looked at the landscape below as the plane passed over Mauritania and saw mile after mile of sand dune, a desolate Saharan desert. Jacques’ Air France flight landed at the international airport in Nouakchott, Mauritania’s capital. He took flights from Dulles to JFK with a stop, then on to Charles DeGaulle in Paris and the associated jet lag. During his six hour stop in Paris, he met with one of Serena’s Mossad agents who provided him with a packet of maps, a rental car agreement and hotel reservations, a Paris Match ID, a radiometer and eyeglasses camera. When he arrived in Nouakchott, after a final five-hour flight from Paris, he didn’t feel like visiting the Jamaran.

  By the time he picked up his rental car and drove to the Novatel Hotel in the 85-degree dry heat it was late afternoon, so he decided to unpack, have a nice meal, get some shuteye, and head to the ship early in the next morning when he was refreshed. Included with the packet of maps was some tourist information and suggested places to visit, but tourism was not on his agenda. He was posing as a reporter from the Paris Match who had flown in from Paris to get the lowdown and some photos for a glossy peace tour article.

  Jacques enjoyed an early dinner at the Le Mediterraneaen of prawns in cheese sauce, local vegetables, and a slab of chocolate cake. He was disappointed with the alcohol ban, even for westerners, so he drank bottled Perrier water, but he shouldn’t have been surprised given that Mauritania was a 100 per cent Muslim country.

  If he would’ve known how strict they would be even in a European style restaurant, he would’ve tucked a couple of the Air France single serve bottles into his baggage. The airport personnel didn’t search his bags, and he might have been able to smuggle a couple of drinks into the country. Serena wouldn’t have approved, and all he could have done if caught would have been to claim he was an ignorant Frenchman.

  Jacques brought his professional cameras to substantiate his cover as a reporter. He would take pictures of everything the crew would allow with the professional cameras and everything else with his eyeglass camera. He mocked himself as impersonating Clark Kent with the large black plastic-framed glasses, and hoped no one would check close enough to notice the glass had no prescription. The eyeglasses would make him look unthreatening in a nerdish way, and allow Jacques to take pictures of every crewman he encountered. Serena would run their photos against all the known terrorists she could from every database she had access to, including CIA, FBI, Interpol, Mossad, and others he probably didn’t even know existed.

  He would play the affable, inquisitive reporter and try to put the crew at ease so they would open up and tell him what he wanted to know. He would ingratiate himself into their good graces with complements about embarking on a peace tour, and sympathizing with the disrespectful way the world treated their country.

  Serena had provided him with a laundry list of objectives including discovering all he could about the intentions of the Jamaran and the Kilo submarine. Where were they going? What had they done with the MANPADS? Were they still hiding in engine parts stenciled wooden crates in the Jamaran storeroom? Did they have some sort of nuclear device onboard? What suspicious activities were going on onboard the two vessels? Were there any known terrorists onboard either the frigate or the submarine?

  Jacques had suggested that perhaps she could do a better undercover reconnaissance than he could, but she replied that she shouldn’t have too much exposure to the crews. Even though the crew members had only seen her in a full burqa, one of them might recognize her voice, her eyes, or her hands.

  Jacques started up the gangplank of the Jamaran at 9 A.M. the next morning after a six-hour sleep, a hot shower, and a continental breakfast in the Novatel’s restaurant. His two large lens cameras jangled around his neck on their lanyards. He wore a hat with the Paris Match reporter ID card in the hat band. He felt like a big goof wearing the spy glasses.

  He had practiced pressing his right arm against his side to ‘snap’ a picture. The micro-switch sewn into his shirt and the Bluetooth signal to the glasses worked flawlessly. Take that, James Bond’s Q. He carried a folder containing his mini iPad, a notepad, pens and the special radiation measurement and recording device. The radiation measurement device was ‘on’ and recording. If there was a nuclear device onboard the Jamaran or the Kilo, Jacques would have evidence. If the crews were to discover his charade as a Paris Match reporter his life would be in jeopardy.

  A crewman with a .45-caliber pistol on his belt asked Jacques in butchered French to state his business.

  Jacques replied, “I’m here to interview your captain for the Paris Match magazine.”

  “What your name?”

  “Jacques LeFriant.”

  “Show ID.”

  Jacques handed the guard his French driver’s license and his Paris Match Identification. “Will these do?”

  The guard took the ID, studied them as though he knew what he was doing, then compared the ID to the watch list. “Yes, you have appointment with captain. I call escort.” The guard called a crewman with a walkie-talkie.

  A crewman appeared within minutes. “We’ve been expecting you. Follow me.”

  Jacques noted the submarine tied alongside the Jamaran. A gangplank with a safety rail provided a walkway from the deck of the Jamaran to the Kilo. Jacques would request a tour of the Kilo after he had gleaned whatever Intel he could from the frigate captain.

  The crewman led Jacques through a hatch one level below the pilot house and led him down a passageway to the galley. Serena had given Jacques a description of the ship’s interior. When they arrived at the galley, the crewman announced, “the reporter is here,” to his captain.

  The captain remained sitting as Jacques took a seat on the opposite side of the galley table from him. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” the captain asked in annoyed French.

  “Oui.”

  “The cups and coffee maker are over there against that bulkhead.” The captain pointed over Jacques’ shoulder.

  Jacques poured coffee into the cleanest cup he could find out of four sitting by the coffee maker, returned to face the captain, placed his two cameras on the table, and greeted Captain Shirazi saying, “Sobh be keyr,” or ‘good morning’ in Farsi and sat down.

  Shirazi gave Jacques a quizzical look.

  “We can converse in Farsi if you’d like,” Jacques continued in Farsi.

  The captain’s stern face cracked a slight smile. “A Frenchman who speaks Farsi. You’re a rare bird. Most Frenchmen won’t speak any language other than their own. You want to make a story about us?” the captain continued in Farsi.

  “I’m an admirer of your country, your history and traditions. I studied ancient civilizations and languages in college and ended up being a reporter.”

  “Can you print truth?”

  “I try. I would like to write a positive story about your peace tour and your magnificent ship.”

  The captain set down his cup and stared at Jacques, apparently not expecting a visitor to his liking. His bulldog face softened slightly. He fully expected CIA and Interpol agents to want to crawl all over his ship and look for trouble.

  He told Jacques how he had been born in a small poor village, but through the wisdom of his village Mullah he had been allowed to attend a maritime college in Kabul and study marine technology. He had worked his way up through the naval ranks to command the centerpiece of the Iranian Navy and was proud to take it on a world tour to show off Iran’s accomplishments.

  Jacques took copious notes pretending to take a personal interest in Shirazi’s life story. “May I take a picture of you for the article?”

  Shirazi leaned back on the bench, purposely made a gruff captain-like expression on his three-day bearded face, and said, “I’m of no import,” shrugged his brawny shoulders, and answered, “If you like.”

  Jacques used one of his large expensive cameras to take a picture while he also took a picture using the small camera embedded in his eyeglass frame. The glass in his camera eye
glasses were made of a photoelectric which looked as if he were wearing a pair of night and day glasses which became sunglasses in the sun and became almost clear in a darkened room. It helped that they never became completely clear because a sharp observer would notice that there was no prescription in the glass. He ‘snapped’ the eyeglass picture by activating the micro-switch sewn into his short sleeve shirt.

  “Would it be alright if I interviewed some of your crew?”

  Captain Shirazi frowned. “No, only interviews are with me.”

  Jacques made his most disappointed expression. “Well, how about a tour so I can take some pictures of your impressive ship for the article.”

  “I can only give you a short tour. I have many preparations to make. We depart tomorrow.”

  “Where are you going to next? Our readers would like to know.”

  “That’s not for publication.”

  “You will already be headed home by the time the article is published, at least two months from now. Do you have any idea how long it takes to make room in the Paris Match for an article, any article?”

  “No, I don’t.” Captain Shirazi frowned, “I can only say we’re going across the Atlantic to South America next, and perhaps as far north as Cuba. That’s enough said. If you want a ship’s tour, we have to go now.”

  “I would appreciate a tour.”

  The captain stood, took his cup and Jacques’ cup, placed them on the dirty dishes shelf, and walked out to the passageway. “I can provide a simple brochure if you would like. It contains simple diagrams of the ship’s layout and a few photographs.”

  “A CD of the photographs would be useful in providing clear images for the magazine.”

  “I’ll see if that can be arranged.”

  Captain Shirazi led Jacques through the ship, letting him look in the radar room and the command center, but wouldn’t allow him to take pictures with his professional camera, so Jacques photographed all of the equipment and crew with his eyeglasses camera. The captain bragged, “We have the finest radar and navigation equipment available.” When they toured the command center, he said, “We brought only enough ordinance to be able to protect ourselves from pirates and other aggressor attacks.”

  “Can we tour the Kilo?”

  “I would have to clear that with Captain Ghaznavi. If he says ‘yes’ or if he says ‘no’ I cannot say.” Captain Shirazi led Jacques out to the main deck and asked the sentry to go over to the Kilo and ask if the Paris Match reporter could come aboard.

  Within a few minutes the sentry returned and said, “A short tour only. Captain Ghaznavi’s busy.”

  Jacques followed the sentry across the gangplank to the Kilo and was led down the upper hatch to the interior of the submarine. The sentry led him through several compartments to the galley where Captain Ghaznavi was waiting. A crewman tried to squeeze past Jacques at the entryway to the galley, so Jacques ‘snapped’ his photo multiple times as he passed. The crewman seemed anxious not to encounter Jacques face to face.

  Jacques greeted Captain Ghaznavi as he had Captain Shirazi by saying, “Sobh be keyr,” or ‘good morning’ in Farsi and sat down across from him. “We can converse in Farsi, or French, whichever you would like.”

  “Farsi, would be preferable,” Ghaznavi replied.

  Jacques repeated his explanation of how he knew Farsi to Captain Ghaznavi, who warmed up quicker than Shirazi had. He asked, “How long have you been the captain of this submarine?”

  “This will be my first voyage as captain.”

  “I understand you are royalty.”

  “Why yes, I’m a descendent of the Qatar Persian royal line. I was educated in the finest military academies and graduated from the Sorbonne, at Paris Tech for physics and electrical engineering, so I’m well qualified,” he boasted.

  Ghaznavi’s personal story was the yin to Shirazi’s yang. Ghaznavi’s silver spoon story seemed to match his soft genteel appearance and disdainful mannerisms. On reflection, Jacques preferred the company of the gruff, bulldog-looking captain of the frigate as opposed to this haughty submarine commander. “Is there anything special about your ship?”

  “I’ve entertained other visitors, probably all spies, who came onboard asking all kinds of questions. I assured them all that the configuration of this Kilo is the same as most Kilos in service around the world. You can learn all you need to know about this vessel from the internet.” Ghaznavi stood, prepared to leave.

  “Would you mind showing me around. I’ve never been on a submarine before, and it will help my story to feel what it’s like to live on a submarine. Also, can I take a picture of you for my article. My readers would like to see what the captain looks like.” Jacques hoped to appeal to Ghaznavi’s vanity.

  “No. No pictures of me, but I will give you a quick look around, and then you must go.” Ghaznavi led Jacques on a short tour from bow to stern, not allowing him to take pictures with his professional cameras, but Jacques ‘snapped’ away at everything that seemed important with his eyeglasses camera. There seemed to be nothing unusual about the Kilo, and the captain reiterated that they carried only the minimum defensive arsenal for protection against pirates and other unspecified aggressors. “Peace and goodwill are our only objectives.” The same party line Jacques had received from Captain Shirazi. Jacques felt like he knew when Ghaznavi was lying; every time he opened his mouth.

  As Captain Ghaznavi escorted Jacques back to the ladder leading to the top deck of the Kilo, an approaching crewman seemed to hesitate, then quickly turned and headed back the way he came. Jacques snapped the crewman’s photograph as fast and as many times as he could. He hoped he had obtained several clear photos of face, profile and the back of his head, since the crewman’s aversion to encountering Jacques was too obvious to ignore.

  Captain Ghaznavi turned him over to the sentry. “I must get back to work. I look forward to reading your article.”

  Jacques replied, “Mersi, mammon,” or thank you in Farsi.

  Jacques followed the sentry up the ladder to the top deck. As the sentry led him across the gangplank to the Jamaran, Jacques asked, “Tovaalet kojast?” or ‘where is the toilet?’ in Farsi.

  The sentry who spoke only Farsi said that he was supposed to escort Jacques to the shore, but Jacques pleaded that he had to defecate, and soon. The sentry, flustered by Jacques’ request, took him back inside the Jamaran to the head, which was next to the storeroom, and the storeroom was next to the galley.

  Jacques walked into the head, took a stall, and sat on the commode. Jacques called out to the sentry that he would need a few minutes. When he heard the young sailor step out into the passageway, Jacques opened the stall door and with the utmost quiet walked to the head entry door and peeked around the corner. The sentry had gone to the galley. Jacques took a large risk by opening the storage room door. He saw the three wooden crates Serena had discovered with the ‘Engine Parts’ stenciling on each crate. The crates were still hiding in plain sight.

  Even if someone were to discover the duplicity of storing MANPADS in crates marked ‘engine parts,’ the MANPADS would not be considered WMD used in their normal way. The Iranians could claim they were defensive weapons to be used against unspecified aggressors. If they were used against a US aircraft on a clear day, their origin would be obvious, and targeting a US aircraft on a stormy day wouldn’t be practical.

  Jacques quickly closed the storeroom door and hustled back to the stall just in time to have the sentry inquire, “Are you alright in there?” Jacques unrolled some toilet paper, pretended to wipe himself, flushed the toilet and left the stall. He washed his hands and dried them.

  The sentry motioned for Jacques to hurry. Jacques followed the sentry to the gangplank, thanked him for his consideration, and walked down to the pier. Serena would have to wait until he arrived back in Washington, DC to view the pictures and get Jacques’ report. Trying to transmit the data to DC from Mauritania would be difficult at best. Jacques hoped she would be pleased w
ith his Intel. She was difficult to please.

  Thirty-One

  The four drove through the gates of the National Security Agency at Fort George Meade and parked in front of building one. They obtained their badges at the security desk and proceeded to corridor two. They showed their badges to the guard at the entrance to corridor two and walked down to office number 250 on the left and showed their badges again to the guard at the door. He allowed them to enter a large room full of computers, computer techs, and analysts screening data.

  Serena approached Alicia, a tall blonde female analyst in charge of identifying persons of interest, and asked, “Have you found our terrorist yet?”

  “Good to see you, too, Serena. Hello, Ian, Jacques, Desiree. How’re you all doing?”

  “Great, Alicia, it’s good to see you,” Jacques replied for the group.

  Alicia led them to her office, and the four brought in extra chairs from the open workspace. Alicia said, “Sit and let me amaze you,” and closed the door. “I hope you appreciate the effort we put into what you’re about to see. We can’t run a photo through a laptop and within two minutes give you the perp’s name like they do on every cop show on TV, or that we can monitor everyone in the world at all times like they did on the TV show Person of Interest. But London is unique. I’ll explain as we go.”

  “We appreciate your effort,” said Serena.

  Serena sat next to Alicia in front of Alicia’s large computer monitor while the others sat on either side of them. Alicia pointed to a figure on the screen and said, “I think this is your Notting Hill perp.” The image was a fifty-something man, a day’s growth of graying stubble, medium size nose, brown eyes, strong chin, wearing a gray suit with a flower boutonnière. He was leaning over the fruit of a produce stand, and it appeared that there was a mist between his boutonnière, the grapes, and the strawberries in the baskets in front of him.