by Tom Haase
"We don’t know the exact purpose of the meeting or the exact timing of the meeting—only a hotel. Your mission is to find out where and when and to take appropriate action. You have the full use of all the assets of this agency at your disposal. You will report directly to the new Director of Covert Organizations and Operations, Brigadier General Bergermeyer, who will be in charge of this mission. All analysts in DIA will concentrate on this mission and request NSA assistance in acquiring signals intelligence. Captain, do you have any questions?”
“Thank you for the opportunity to do this. Will the Director of National Intelligence want to insert CIA or other operatives into the mission?” Matt asked the general when he looked up.
“I will handle that and the answer is no. There will not be any other agency involved,” the general said.” Anything else?”
“No, sir,” Matt responded.
“General Bergermeyer will have any answers you will need when you finish your operations order and submit it to her.”
As General Forsman started to continue, the door of the conference room opened and Brigadier General Mary Jean Bergermeyer, the Director of Covert Organizations and Operations Center, “the Center,” entered and walked over to General Forsman. A strikingly beautiful woman perhaps a year or so over forty, her red hair cropped short and her blouse showing ample curves. She leaned forward to whisper in the general’s ear. She said, “Sorry I am late, General, but I think you will see why.” She handed him a note and waited.
General Forsman looked at Mary Jean after he read the note. His complexion paled and his demeanor changed. They stepped away from the podium and he said to her, “Now I know why you were not here at the beginning of the meeting. She was one of yours.”
Returning to the podium, Forsman started to read the note aloud.
“Yesterday the body of Major Tara Lawson was discovered in a bombed house in Baghdad. She had been murdered. Most of you probably know by now that she originated the flash message you saw. I think we can bet she was murdered by one of the terrorists from the cell she worked with.”
* * *
Glenwood’s heart seemed to stop. No one present knew of the intimate relationship that had existed between Tara and Glenwood. None noticed Glenwood McDonald’s face turn rigid. Nor could they have known that as he turned away he felt like hitting someone or something to overcome the empty ache gnawing at his center as he inwardly damned her saying, “Shit, she was stupid for going over there. I told her not to go. Why did she have to go over there? I should be leading this team to go after these ragheads. I’ll do anything to make that happen.”
Anyone watching would have observed that he sat very still with all the blood draining from his face as he held his breath. Others at the table, who knew Tara, were also shocked by the news. A few “My Gods” were heard as the impact of one of their own being killed by the terrorists hit home.
At the podium, the general’s eyes took in every man and woman in the room. He took his time before he said, “Let's get to work. I want all assets of current intelligence directed at supporting this operation. Your mission, Captain Higgins, is to capture, if possible, to learn what they are up to but, at all cost, to terminate at the earliest opportunity these individuals. We now have one objective for these terrorists. That is as General Stormin’ Norman once said ‘our job is to arrange a meeting between them and Allah.’ I believe General Bergermeyer has something to say. General, you have the floor.”
Mary Jean Bergermeyer approached the podium. After making good eye contact with the audience, she put up a slide with dates and events.
“I want to go over a few things I believe we lose focus on from time to time in our daily endeavors to get the terrorists that might harm the national interest of the United States. We are engaged in a war, in a struggle where the enemy can be counted in the tens of millions, located in every corner of the globe. This war, World War III, began in Iran, with the destruction of the regime of the Shah and the return of the Ayatollah Khomeini. He intended on accomplishing two things: create an Islamic Republic and start a campaign to export his Islamic revolution to the entire world, starting with Israel.
“In the latest round of fighting in the Middle East, Hezbollah and Hamas acted on Tehran's behalf and under Iranian orders. Is there any doubt why Israel was shocked to discover the quantity and the sophistication of Hezbollah's armament that had to come into Lebanon from Iran? The men we are now tracking are dedicated jihadists. We know where they will be in a few days. We must find them, capture or kill them. Captain Higgins, we all wish you good luck and God speed in your mission.”
9
Yuri Marchanovich And Tewfik Al-Hanbali
SUNDAY – 4:30 P.M.
MOSCOW’S SHEREMETYEVO AIRPORT
Yuri paced, clutching and releasing his fingers, around the arrival area. This airport encased a bleak and uninspired open space for arrivals. Yesterday, without any prior mention of a visit, al-Hanbali requested by e-mail that Yuri pick him up and supplied the details of his flight. This unexpected visit left him a little confused since it had been ten years since they last met. He wondered if Tewfik would recognize him now that his sandy hair showed some pepper with white and deep creases appeared around his brown eyes. These changes resulted from the stress of unemployment. The lines were not the ones generated from frequent laughter. His oval face and bulbous nose crowned a small frame which stood about five foot six and dressed in a blue open-collar shirt, brown corduroy pants and a medium weight brown jacket to protect him from the mild autumn wind in Moscow.
The plane was now scheduled to be two hours late. He hadn’t needed to drive like a madman to get to the airport on time, since it was Sunday afternoon and devoid of lumbering rush-hour traffic. His puzzlement remained as to why his old classmate and friend planned to visit him on such short notice. Over the past decade, they had maintained infrequent contacts.
He looked at the message board, at last the flight had landed.
Twenty minutes later, he observed al-Hanbali as he walked down the ramp toward the baggage claim area. The Saudi had grown a bit older, but in other ways he looked just as Yuri remembered him. Dressed in dark blue jeans, an open white shirt, and a very plain blue jacket as he approached Yuri. His black hair seemed a little wavy, but he did not sport the Saudi beard nor did he display any of the Arab sartorial items normally be associated with somebody from his country.
Yuri recalled that Tewfik had a small scar on his neck, which stuck above the white collars of the shirts he wore. The man had always made a great effort to hide the scar, and Yuri had never asked what had caused it, nor had al-Hanbali ever said anything about it during their school years. Tewfik carried a small black briefcase in his hand, with a little black overnight bag slung over his left shoulder. He displayed no smile on his face as he came out of baggage claim, but when he saw Yuri a broad grin appeared.
“Tewfik, you look the same as ever. It’s great to see you, my friend.”
“Delighted to see you and thank you so much for coming to the airport,” al-Hanbali replied. “You look great. Really great. Not a day older. Well, maybe a few.” Yuri chuckled, knowing he looked exactly like a super brainy scientist who did not know to use an umbrella in a downpour. “Tewfik, let me help you with your bag. My car is nearby. I've arranged for you to stay at the hotel you requested. We can have an evening meal at a local restaurant near where I live.”
“That is most kind of you. I'm looking forward to having a long talk with you, but unfortunately I do have to depart early tomorrow,” al-Hanbali said, once again giving him a broad smile.
Yuri suspected the smile concealed the real purpose of Tewfik’s visit.
* * *
Tewfik arrived at Yuri's apartment complex just after six thirty in the evening. His eyes wandered over a dreary two-room apartment with a minuscule bathroom. The couch, definitely pre-modern, and the kitchen area something from the Flintstones cartoon series. An old-style percolator coffee pot s
at on the propane stove beside a skillet, the rim of which still displayed remnants of scrambled eggs sticking to it.
After using the facilities, Yuri escorted him to a nearby restaurant, which comprised a plain establishment with a few tables for diners. They arranged themselves on opposite sides of one rickety table. They were the lone patrons. Yuri ordered two vodkas to start the evening like they had done as students. They sat in silence, waiting for the drinks. Tewfik realized Yuri anxiously waited for an explanation of why his old friend had arrived so unexpectedly with no forewarning.
After seeing where Yuri lived, al-Hanbali knew he had been correct in thinking Yuri’s economic situations quite dim even dire. Tewfik decided the time had arrived to open the discussion concerning the real reason for his visit. He sat back in his chair, stared at Yuri, and willingly took control of the conversation.
“Yuri, we have known one another for many years. We can talk candidly, I hope, so I need to be direct. I am currently engaged in a project in your area of expertise, and I need your assistance. I want you to come to Saudi Arabia to work with me on this project. I don’t know how busy you are, but I’m willing to make this very profitable for you. I can tell you that your previous job in the military provided you with the knowledge and it’ll be needed.”
“Tewfik, come on, my friend, you can be a little more specific than that. I’m most curious about whatever this is since you came so unexpectedly to Moscow to visit me. I told you I’m unemployed now and could very easily be available to assist you. Please, tell me exactly what you want me to do,” Yuri said. He then moved his chair closer to al-Hanbali.
Leaning over the table so Yuri could hear, Al-Hanbali said in a near whisper, “You’re right. I have to be candid with you because you’ll be able to surmise the project as soon as you see the material that you’ll work with. I need you to put something together for me.” He paused and looked into Yuri’s expectant eyes. “Specifically, I want you to build me a small atomic weapon or two. I know you built them for the military.” He had to win here. Their entire dirty oil scenario depended on him getting Yuri to accept his offer.
“No. No way. I can’t do that,” Yuri blurted out. “You can’t be serious. The penalties are very severe. I fear perhaps you are asking the impossible and you know better.” Yuri continued to shake his head. With even this much information, Yuri would without doubt realize the task would be dangerous and beyond illegal. Yuri could undoubtedly see something else — terrorism.
Al-Hanbali watched Yuri’s facial expressions and he could sense his refusal coming again. Tewfik made a rapid decision to go ahead with his full offer. Failure was not an option at this point. Crunch time had arrived. Regrettably, he possessed nothing to force Yuri’s acceptance, the man’s economic situation his sole play.
He continued in a soft tone. “Yuri, I know this is very difficult for you, and it’s hard for me to ask you. I really want you to assist me in this project and to help you make up your mind, I’ll give you”—al-Hanbali made a deliberate pause—“five million U.S. dollars right now. When you complete the project in Saudi Arabia, and I do not expect to take more than one month, I’ll put another five million into your account when you return to Moscow or wherever you might decide to go after getting your money. That is how important this project is to me,” al-Hanbali finished.
The waiter arrived and placed the two vodka drinks on the table. Tewfik, who obeyed the laws of Islam in an Islamic country, but now he took a sip of the vodka and sat back in his chair to wait on Yuri’s response.
Tewfik could see Yuri could not even pick up the vodka glass. He appeared completely stunned. Hearing the five-million-dollar offer, his mind must have stopped working. He appeared not to be able to think straight as he stared wide-eyed at al-Hanbali. Mental shock had set in. Slowly, his mind must have started to function, and to realize the enormity of the project that al-Hanbali proposed—ten million U.S. dollars.
Tewfik knew if Yuri accepted this offer, it would solve all his financial problems and give him a way to get to the West. In America, he could get a job and even start a new life. He realized his friend had started to digest the offer in terms of the money: one million, two million, five million and then ten million.
* * *
Yuri had spent his youth since the age of fourteen at a seminary outside Kiev preparing for the Orthodox priesthood. In those days, a difficult position to be in. The Soviets were not in favor of any type of religious activity. While there, he had been brilliant in academia, loving languages and mathematics. Possessing a natural gift for picking up the languages, especially the ancient languages used in the Bible, he had become very proficient, even to the point of being able to read the ancient Koine Greek, Hebrew, and Aramaic without a dictionary. However, his real fascination had been in mathematics, and in that he had excelled.
One morning in July, during the morning prayers, he decided the religious life didn’t challenge him enough. There had to be something more to life and he couldn’t find it at the seminary. He returned to his little cell, packed up his few meager belongings and walked out, leaving no message, saying nothing to anyone.
After months of wandering, he ended up at the Moscow State University, studying math, physics, and engineering. His tutors and teachers recognized, from the start of his studies, his mathematical genius and then he received expedited handling into the doctoral program. Before completing his doctorate, the military had approached him to work as a nuclear design engineer. On graduation, he joined the military establishment.
The military system took care of the people it needed in order to maintain its lethal arsenal. Yuri had a comfortable apartment in Moscow and enjoyed access to the expensive goods of a Western lifestyle. He had a personal computer as part of his job and he loved to play with the encryption and other mathematical software programs that abounded in that arena of this emerging technology. On his personal laptop, he had a new CD writer. He had learned how to copy what seemed like vast quantities of information onto the small 5-inch discs, later he moved up a DVD disc. He discovered he could copy music on this new media as well as the projects he was working on both at home and at work. He enjoyed playing with his computer more than spending time in the company of women.
He viewed girls as uninteresting, and his work, with its high security level, prevented him from discussing anything he did with outsiders. The one exception he had ever made — al-Hanbali. They had become friends while attending a math class that al-Hanbali had to take for his economic degree. No one, not even al-Hanbali, could know or discover Yuri’s almost obsessive relationship with the computer. That instrument held his real love. The little machine understood languages, mathematics, physics, music, encryption and any combination of them that he arranged.
Yuri remained quite successful until the demise of funding for the military after the breakup of the Soviet Union. Paying jobs dried up, especially for a nuclear scientist. He remained unemployed, without any income, without any way to leave Russia, and without any personal contacts to help him get away or get a new job. Al-Hanbali’s offer provided a great temptation even though some moral and a few legal scruples nagged at him. He remembered what the Chechen terrorist had done in his country and the idea of working for a terrorist unthinkable…but a total of ten million dollars. That was something else. If he accepted the offer, he would have a great life and maybe even work a deal for more projects later. He made his decision. He looked up.
Yuri knew this offer by Tewfik would be a once-in-a-lifetime chance. He had thought about it for what seemed like a long time, but in fact lasted only a few seconds. If he did this for Tewfik, he had no assurances they would let him live. If he didn’t do it now that he knew about the plan to build an atomic weapon, he would likely be killed. Damn, how did he get to this juncture in his life?
* * *
“Okay, Tewfik. I’ll do it, but I have a few questions. When do I have to come to Saudi?”
“Tomorrow,” Tewfik knew h
e had him. Praise Allah, he had won.
“What do I have to bring?” Yuri asked.
“Nothing. I’ll supply all your needs.”
“Where will I stay?” Yuri inquired.
“At my home.”
“And when will the money be available to pay off certain things before I leave Moscow?” Yuri asked.
“Yesterday,” responded Al-Hanbali.
“You were pretty sure of yourself.”
“Yes. I knew I could count on you. Here is your ticket for tomorrow afternoon. I believe you should have enough time to settle any accounts here before your departure.” Al-Hanbali reached into his pocket and handed Yuri a small envelope.
“This is the deposit book for a small account I put in your name here. It is available for your use as of today to take care of any accounts in Moscow. Tell me tomorrow where to deposit your five million and it will be there by end of day. If you want me to open an account in Switzerland, I can do that for you. At my house, you will have two qualified assistants to help you. Both have worked at nuclear facilities in France and have degrees in civil nuclear engineering. They have already started on the construction of the basic items and gathered the various tools you will need in the construction phase. This will give you a head start on your arrival. One last thing on this subject—tell no one anything about what we just discussed or about your travel plans. Is that perfectly clear?” al-Hanbali concluded.
“Yes. Perfectly. Now let’s order our dinner.” Yuri looked away and signaled for the waiter, but his hand shook as he did so. Tewfik wasn’t sure if Yuri would be able eat a single morsel.
