The Sienna Sand

by Jeff Siebold

  Julia nodded. Her passport was Irish, as was her citizenship. Employment by a Lebanese firm would serve to further muddy the waters, if the FBI ever did decide to come visiting.

  “Where do you typically dock the Gun Runner?” she asked.

  “We move around quite a bit, and Mr. Khoury often flies in to meet us.”

  She nodded.

  “We’ll be leaving for Sint Maarten in a few days,” he continued. “You’ll have enough time to pack your things, then come back to the Gun Runner. Mr. Khoury will join us in the Caribbean.”

  “We’ll be on the south side of the island?” she asked.

  “Yes, the Dutch side,” said the captain. “Have you been there?”

  “I have,” she said. “But it’s been awhile.”

  * * *

  “I’ll be away for awhile,” said Julia. She was talking on the phone with her landlord in Savannah. “I’m traveling abroad.”

  There was silence as she listened to the response.

  “Yes, I understand. I’ll just be paying you in advance for the next month.”

  Another moment of silence and Julia said, “I’ll be here through the end of this week. Leaving on Saturday. I didn’t want you to worry.”

  Zeke sat in his Savannah rental cottage while watching and listening to one side of Julia Conners’ conversation. He was monitoring the small camera with a wide-angle lens and the audio device he’d placed in her apartment. He’d taken up his surveillance position when she arrived home from Hilton Head Island, fifteen miles away as the crow flies. The infrared transmitter in her kitchen had been activated by her body heat.

  She hung up the phone, setting it on the counter. In a minute she dialed it again and said, “Is Erin there, please.”

  A moment later she said, “Hello, darling, it’s Mummy. You need to know that I’ll be going to ground for a little while. Actually, it’s not ‘ground’ at all…I’ll be at sea. I have a new opportunity. But the important thing is that I’ll be off the grid for a few weeks.”

  She listened for a moment. “Nothing so dramatic,” she said. “I just think it’s smart to be careful. And I have the opportunity to be careful. So, you’ll not hear from me for a while. I just want you to know.”

  There was a long pause. Then Julia said, “I’ll come back home, after this. I should be fine to have a visit. We’ll keep it a secret. It will be good to see Belfast again.”

  * * *

  Zeke sent a copy of the video to Clive by secure e-mail. Then he called, staying on the line as Clive played the short clip for himself and Kimmy.

  “Well, you’ve found the right woman,” said Clive.

  “Sally did that, tracking her credit cards, and then her cell phone. It was easy for me after that.”

  “It sounds like she’s planning to disappear,” said Clive. “This weekend.”

  “Yes, and possibly take a cruise. Or maybe a private yacht. A charter, perhaps. That’s a good way to disappear,” said Zeke.

  “Can we find out who owns the phone number in New York? The one the FBI has flagged?” asked Zeke.

  “That’s a big ‘ask’,” said Clive. “Particularly if it’s in an active FBI investigation. But we may be able to run it down without their help.”

  “You mean Sally?” asked Zeke.

  “Quite so,” said Clive. “I’ll ask her to see what she can find out.”

  “It could be a clue to Ms. Conners’ next location,” said Zeke.

  “What’s she up to do you think?” asked Clive.

  “Not sure. It sounds like she may have connected with a new benefactor, since Chester Kirby is in jail.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Kirby, the little bantam rooster who was running Pawn 4 All,” said Clive.

  “He brought Julia in. I wonder how they knew each other?”

  “Or how they found each other,” said Zeke. “I’m not sure we’ll ever know that. But we should be able to find out who she’s working with now.”

  * * *

  “I got a hit on the phone call from New York,” said Sally. She’d called Zeke on a secure line.

  “That was pretty quick,” said Zeke. “Good work.”

  “Clive asked me yesterday afternoon. And I had to do a ‘work-around’ because the FBI has it flagged as off-limits in the system.”

  “And…” asked Zeke.

  “And I found out it’s owned by a corporation, an LLC actually, named ‘Byblos, LLC’ and…”

  “Named after one of the oldest Phoenician cities,” said Zeke.

  “…and according to the corporate papers filed with the State of New York, the Managing Member of the LLC is a Ghafran Khoury.” Her voice was soft and light, airy.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Zeke. “In light of the FBI flag, what do we know about Mr. Khoury?”

  “Not much, the data is scarce. But Byblos, LLC owns several buildings in New York City,” said Sally.

  “That’s gotta be some pricy real estate,” said Zeke.

  “It is. It’s down by Alphabet City in Manhattan.”

  “What business are they in?” asked Zeke.

  “I’m not positive, although they’re listed under a SIC code. A Standard Industrial Classification.” Sally gave him the code, then said, “It’s the code for Broadcasting and Entertainment.”

  Zeke said, “Send me the location of that phone number, as close as you can get it. I think I’ll pay Mr. Khoury a visit.”

  * * *

  Zeke stepped out of the car and said, “Thanks.”

  He closed the door and the Lyft driver pulled away from the curb.

  The building in front of Zeke was a renovated brownstone on a narrow, one-way street. Zeke walked to the corner and bought a cup of coffee from an upscale espresso house, and sat by the window while he drank it. Then he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the New York number.

  “Marhaban,” said a voice.

  “May I speak to Ghafran Khoury?” Zeke asked in Arabic.

  “Who is this?” responded the man.

  “It’s personal,” said Zeke. “It’s a personal matter.”

  The voice hesitated. Obviously he was uncertain whether he should pry and possibly get himself in trouble.

  “Did he give you this number?” asked the voice.

  “Yes, of course,” said Zeke, still speaking Arabic.

  Zeke had learned Arabic in college, at George Washington University where he also studied Spanish. And during his time as a military counterterrorism contractor he perfected several dialects in each language.

  The man, still hesitating, didn’t like the awkward silence. Zeke waited patiently while the man decided what to do. Then the man said, “Hold on,” in English.

  It was a long four minutes before someone else picked up the phone. “Yes,” he asked. He had a young voice.

  “Are you Ghafran Khoury?”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “A friend,” Zeke said in Arabic, “I’m calling because I have information you’ll want.”

  “Yes?” said the voice.

  “I have information about Julia Conners. Information you’ll want to know,” Zeke repeated.

  There was a long pause, and then Khoury said, “Who are you talking about? Who is Julia Conners?”

  You waited too long, thought Zeke. Gotcha.

  “Julia’s been talking about you, giving out information. Meet me at the East Village Cafe,” said Zeke. “Two blocks from where you are. I’m here now, and I’ll stay for ten more minutes.” Zeke hung up.

  They must have discussed the situation and decided that it was worth the risk, because six minutes later five men spilled out of the front door of Khoury’s brownstone, down the steps, and across the street. They walked together in a tight group, the smallest man in the center.

  Bodyguards, thought Zeke. Ghafran Khoury is in the middle.

  The men walked briskly and directly to the corner cafe, opened the doors and walked in. Inside in the tight space were several small tables a
nd a serving counter. The cafe was occupied by two college kids, a boy and girl, probably students, and a tall thin man with a panama hat reading a newspaper. The Islamic counterman turned around when they entered.

  One of the bodyguards walked to the man with the hat and said something. The man shook his head, looking confused and somewhat intimidated. He then stood, folded his paper, and left.

  The bodyguard went to the counter and said something in Arabic, and the counterman nodded and pointed at the door. The guards had their handguns out, four matching Glock 17’s.

  The smaller man looked around, impatient, and said, “What is this crap?”

  Zeke, standing by a parked car across the street, watched Ghafran Khoury and the bodyguards.

  The men appeared annoyed and then anxious, quickly regrouped, and walked back to the middle brownstone building.

  * * *

  “What did you find out?” asked Clive. Zeke had called him once he got back to his New York hotel room.

  “I got a visual of Ghafran Khoury,” said Zeke. “And of his four bodyguards.”

  “Quite good,” said Clive. “Did you recognize any of them?”

  “No, I didn’t. But the bodyguards are all over six foot-three or -four and they look competent. They all look like they’re Middle Eastern.”

  “Of Middle Eastern descent?”

  “More like they were born in the Middle East. Maybe Israeli or Syrian or Lebanese.”

  Clive said, “OK, so we’ll assume professionals?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe we can get Kimmy to take a look at them. She may recognize one or two of the chaps,” said Clive.

  “I took a couple pictures with my phone from across the street.”

  “Good show. Send them on, then,” said Clive.

  “Will do. Also, I was able to determine which building they’re occupying. It’s the middle brownstone.” Zeke gave him the address.

  “Good move,” said Clive. “What’s your plan?”

  “I thought I’d hang around here for a day or so and see what else I can find out.”

  “Tell me about Mr. Khoury,” said Clive. “What’s he like?”

  “Younger than expected,” said Zeke. “And he’s small, thin. But he wears a very expensive suit, Armani’s.”

  “Giorgio,” said Clive.

  “…and he sports a $200 haircut.”

  * * *

  At eight-fifty that evening a black limo pulled up in front of the Alphabet City brownstone and double-parked in the street. Zeke was watching through the window of his parked rental car when Ghafran Khoury stepped out of the building and into the vehicle. He was accompanied by one of his bodyguards who held the rear door of the limo door open for him as he climbed in. Then the man got in the front seat.

  Going out for dinner or drinks, most likely, thought Zeke. The driver’s probably another of the bodyguards.

  After the limo pulled away from the curb and smoothly into traffic, Zeke eased his vehicle out into the next lane over. Traffic was brisk in the city and both cars moved at a reasonable pace, south toward East Houston Street. The limo turned on Allen Street, then took a left and ended up on Eldridge Street before pulling to the curb in front of a nondescript building entry. The face of the building looked like it was made of brown corrugated metal, and there was no signage on it. Ghafran Khoury got out, leaned over and said something to the bodyguards, and stepped across the sidewalk to a small group of young men.

  His entourage, thought Zeke.

  Ghafran greeted them and they entered the building. The bodyguards stayed in the car, pulled forward, and parked in a reserved spot by the curb. The driver lowered his window and lit a cigarette.

  Zeke watched the action and checked his smart phone. The Eldridge Street address was the location of the Rumpus Room, a Lower East Side cocktail bar and dance club.

  Zeke aimed his car at Houston Street and returned to his hotel.

  * * *

  “The Rumpus Room?” asked Clive. “That sounds like a place for children to play.”

  “Actually, yes, overgrown children, from what I’ve seen. It’s all cocktails and dancing, according to the website.”

  “Sounds like a place for rich kids, not business men,” said Clive. “Kimmy took a look at the pictures you sent this afternoon of the bodyguards.”

  Zeke nodded. “And?”

  “She recognized two of the men. They belonged to Al Fouhoud, the Panthers.”

  “Lebanon’s internal security force?” asked Zeke.

  “Yes. Their elite force. Apparently, there are a finite number of agents in the Middle Eastern intelligence forces circle. Mossad, Al Fouhoud, a few others. Kimmy said they all memorize each other’s faces.”

  “Did she name names?” ask Zeke.

  “Yes. She recognized Amal Hamid and Maheer Shaath.”

  “You think they retired and went to work for Khoury?” asked Zeke.

  “Yes, she said they’re the right age. Too old to still be field operatives, but they’d make excellent bodyguards,” said Clive.

  “I mentioned Julia Conners to Ghafran Khoury when I called him, and he knew the name. It was enough to get him out of his space and down the street. She may be connected to him now. I think I’ll work on that angle, see what I can find out about this operation.”

  “When do you plan on coming back to D.C.?”

  “I’ll be there day after tomorrow, latest. It’s less than a five-hour drive.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow, I plan to get close to Ghafran Khoury.”

  * * *

  At eight forty-five in the evening the action was just starting to pick up in the Rumpus Room. The space was wide open with a wooden bar along one wall, a stage across from it, and small seating arrangements in leather and wood scattered about. There was a chrome ball hanging from the ceiling, and a small DJ’s booth in one corner. This early, the music was low and the place was half full.

  “What’ll you have?” asked the bartender. She wore her blonde hair up and sported a sleeve of tattoos on each arm, mostly red and green ink forming into flowers and musical notes and one large lizard. She was wearing a black tuxedo bow tie.

  “Small batch Bourbon on the rocks,” said Zeke. “Thanks.”

  “Preference?” she asked.

  “Elijah Craig?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  He eased into an empty barstool and watched her build the drink. She was competent and efficient.

  Most of the patrons were in their twenties and eclectically dressed. As Zeke was trying to discern the meaning behind the costume of a girl wearing bib-overall shorts and a fedora, Ghafran Khoury walked into the room.

  Zeke ignored him, but the bartender raised her voice and said, “G, over here.” She set Zeke’s Bourbon in front of him.

  Ghafran looked around the room leisurely, then moved toward the bar. He was wearing distressed jeans and a striped shirt with a linen sports coat over it.

  “Elaina, how are you, darling?” he asked her.

  She came out from behind the bar and hugged Ghafran. She looked a lot like a young Barbara Eden.

  Zeke looked away. A few moments later, Ghafran stood by the seat next to him and said, across the bar, “Elaina, I have a table reserved. Some friends will be here soon.”

  She said, “Do you want your usual?”

  Ghafran nodded and Elaina got busy again behind the bar.

  Zeke said, “She’s good at what she does.”

  Ghafran said, “She is. Very good.” He looked at Zeke and said, “I haven’t seen you here before.”

  “Guilty,” said Zeke. “It’s my first time. Heard good things about this place.”

  “It all cranks up a couple notches after midnight.”

  “Thanks, I’ll stay around, then.”

  * * *

  By eleven, the Rumpus Room was well populated with a variety of costumed characters, most of whom were obviously there to see and be seen. The people for
med groups that grew and shrunk as time went on.

  From the bar, Zeke watched Ghafran, who was seated in a conversation pit and surrounded by several girls who alternated drinks between what looked like Cosmopolitans and shots of something blue. When he asked, Elaina told him they were Blue Kamikazes.

  Three young men, apparently of Middle Eastern descent, had joined Ghafran, who by this time was holding court. He laughed and told stories and each time his entourage laughed hysterically.

  He must be paying for the drinks, thought Zeke. He can’t be that funny.

  One of the girls, a blonde who looked like she was perhaps twenty-five or so, stood and wobbled and with gestures told her friend she was going to the bathroom. Her friend nodded.

  Zeke signaled to the bartender. “I think I know that girl,” he said, pointing to the girl near Ghafran Khoury. “Is her name Terri?”

  Elaina shook her head. “No, her name’s Candi.”

  Zeke nodded. “That’s right. I’ll be right back.” He pointed at his half finished drink.

  Elaina nodded absently.

  Zeke positioned himself near the bathroom door, and when Candi came out he said, “You look like you’re having a good time.”

  She looked at him and squinted and said, “Have we met?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Zeke, “but Elaina told me that you were a nice girl.”

  “Is that what you’re looking for? A nice girl?”

  Zeke smiled.

  The girl was tall and thin. She was wearing a white shift and very high heels. Her hair was arranged on top of her head in a seemingly random fashion.

  “You have great eyes,” the girl said. Then, “You know Elaina?”

  Zeke nodded. “You’re with G? With G’s group?”

  “Tonight, I am,” she said. “But not every night.”

  “You work for him?”

  “No, my girlfriend does. She handles his website marketing.”

  The heavy beat of the music made it difficult to talk. Zeke said, “Elaina said your name is Candi. Nice to meet you, Candi.” He held out his hand.