by Bob Graham
“Services beyond photographic?” Tony inquired.
With obvious irritation, Jeralewski turned to face him. “I think that’s enough self-flagellation,” he replied curtly. “We’re dealing with the reality that millions of lives are at risk. I’m here to ask what I can do to help.”
Without a pause Tony said, “I’ll get the answer to my question from Ms. Billington later. But to yours, Mr. Jeralewski, it’s urgent that I make contact with a U.S.-trained scientist who lives in Kuala Lumpur. I think you might know him: Mr. Yazid Sonji. I need to talk with him as soon as possible, forty-eight hours on the outside. Can you help?”
“Yes, we can.”
A solid knock on the conference room door broke the tension. Tony opened it to a young woman in a blue skirt and blouse. “I’m FBI special agent Karen Pugh. I am here to escort Mr. Roland Jeralewski to our headquarters for additional questioning.”
Tony nodded his head toward Jeralewski, who rose saying, “Mr. Ramos, I appreciate the opportunity to clarify events.” Then he turned to Laura. “Ms. Billington, depending on the duration and outcome of the questioning, I will hope to see you this evening for the flight back to Long Beach.” Approaching the still-open door, he added, “Ms. Pugh, I am at your service.”
Once Jeralewski was gone, Tony confronted Laura.
“What in the hell were you thinking?”
Taken aback, Laura responded, “And what in the hell are you talking about?”
Tony reached into his coat pocket and handed her a printed email. “This is the road map you sent to Jeralewski on the fourteenth of last month. It lays out the connection between my inquiry and Carol’s and the fact that we were sharing information. He was thoughtful enough not to scrub it from his laptop, and the agents found it last night during the wrap-up of the raid on Peninsular.”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” Laura protested.
“True enough to lead to her murder!” Tony shouted back at her.
Laura read the text. Head down, she leaned back on the oaken table. She braced herself with outstretched hands clutching the edge. The look in Tony’s eyes said he wanted to physically attack her, to rip out her heart. She involuntarily flinched from the blow she thought was coming.
But instead, he kept up his verbal pounding. “Let me ask you again, Laura Billington: What the hell were you thinking when you handed over Carol to your vicious playmates, who then conveniently arranged for me to be the primary suspect?”
“I was thinking about me. Look—look,” Laura stuttered, “for most of my life I’ll admit I took care of me first. It’s how I learned to survive.”
Throughout his tennis career, Tony had struggled to control his emotions while conducting a steady mental dissection of his opponent, probing for his weakness. Laura had just revealed hers, and he was ready to strike, to turn them to his advantage.
“So all that talk about us trusting each other and all you wanted was to bring justice to your father’s killers, all of that was just so much bullshit; like apparently everything else about your pathetic life.”
To avoid Tony’s smoldering gaze, Laura focused on the ceiling. “I was scared. My reputation, my way of life, was crumbling. You are well aware of my profligate lifestyle. I got in over my head. I took on the financial burdens of my friends and associates and succumbed to the temptation to live in the style of my aristocratic clients. I was on the verge of bankruptcy when Jeralewski purchased my note and offered to withhold enforcement if my services to Peninsular were acceptable.”
“Services?”
“It wasn’t a one-way relationship. I was able to provide Peninsular with information only I had access to. I relayed most of what I learned from Zaid and you.”
Tony was stung by this duplicity. He had the urge to beat her, or wrap his strong fingers around her neck and squeeze. He felt as if she had suddenly forced him to question every judgment he’d made in life, to review every trust he’d ever placed in another person. “And that justified murder?”
“Tony, it never occurred to me that this would happen.”
“Oh, and what did you think would happen?”
“I’m a competitor, including in sex. I’ve hated Carol ever since you dissed me in your townhouse and then I smelled her scent in your bedroom closet. Figuring out how to take her out became an obsession, a challenge, but I never meant for her to be physically hurt.”
Now in total control of the situation and over his immediate urge to throttle her, Tony could let himself go. “No, of course not! I’m just glad your father doesn’t have to see you now. You can’t even admit to yourself you caused another person’s death. It’s all about ‘obsession’ and ‘challenge.’ And Laura, Laura, Laura. Are you so self-deluded that you can’t call it what it really is: murder?”
Laura began to tear up. She wrapped her arms around herself. She tried to speak, but couldn’t get the words out. He’d seen her stutter several times when she was nervous. Maybe he’d finally gotten to her.
Tony was conflicted. Was this the first sign of genuine remorse, or was it just because she had been caught, the regret of a spoiled little girl who wants it all her own way without ever having to face the consequences?
“My brain is trumping my gut.”
“What?” Laura asked, surprised at the sharp turn of Tony’s interrogation.
Tony turned his back to her, walking to the far corner of the room. “I can’t say what it will be, but I think you could be useful.”
“Useful?”
He was now looking at her from twenty feet away. “Useful in the same way you were useful to Jeralewski—having inside knowledge and no scruples in using it.”
Laura took a step toward him. “Are you saying I can go back to London?”
“That’s not my decision to make, but that’s what I’m going to recommend to the FBI and the U.S. attorney.”
Laura closed the space and reached up to touch Tony’s face. “I guess I should be thankful.”
“We’ll see.”
OCTOBER 16
Kuala Lumpur
It had been almost six weeks since Tony was last in Yazid Sonji’s office. The world had changed, but not Sonji’s arrogance and anger. Even with Professor Nasir and Roland Jeralewski joining him, Sonji was as difficult as he had been on September 11.
Tony had the feeling the conversation from his previous visit had not been completed, just suspended.
“Have you Americans learned anything from your egregious behavior? Your attack on Iraq and your continued occupation of Afghanistan fuel an expanding conflagration in the Muslim world. Now that world, praise be to Allah, is unleashing its hatred, and Osama is again the symbol and instrument. Do not delude yourselves that Mumbai or the oil fields of Arabia were the ultimate targets. They were but appetizers before the ultimate treat, a treat that will soon be deliciously consumed.”
Professor Nasir exercised his right of seniority and interrupted, “Yazid, we know and agree with much of your feelings. I can assure you my people in India are even more distraught, and with good reason. But there is nothing any of us can do to rewrite history. We can alter only the future.”
With respect, Sonji leaned forward.
“If the world cannot arrest this rage of terror, it is truly the end,” the professor continued. “We have all done the calculation. If his pattern is fulfilled, and you know Osama better than almost anyone not in his cave, the next strike will be on October 31.”
Sonji glanced at his desk calendar and nodded affirmatively.
The professor frowned and pursued his analysis and prophesy. “All over the world the most irrational actions are being taken. In England they are fleeing from London to the highlands of Scotland. In Japan I am told tunnels are being dug. It is as if six centuries of civilization are being rolled back in a fortnight.”
The others sat silently as the professor concluded.
“I doubt that if we could locate him and he agreed to meet, we could convince Osama to des
ist. What is a more reasonable objective is to identify one who is close to him but may be having qualms about the ever more radical direction of al-Qaeda or, for some other reason, might be willing to give us information on his plans for the use of his remaining nuclear material.”
Tony had heard the professor deliver the same analysis when they’d met in his home. Here, it carried even more intensity and persuasiveness.
Sonji was incredulous. “I know how Osama thinks. He considers himself to be a demigod, the living incarnation of Muhammad. This perspective is shared by his inner circle. You are sorely misguided if you think one of them would turn against him. It would be beyond my friendship with Osama, my reason, my ability to do so.”
“Yazid,” the professor said, “this is not just a matter of humanitarianism or theology. Several of us have served more than one master. So all of you will be aware of my circumstances, I will be serving as a consultant to Yazid’s new enterprise.”
He turned to Sonji as he said, “And your employee Anthony has been consulting with me. He has told me of the orders you gave after your last meeting with Mr. Ramos and the subsequent murder of 331 innocents on the Malaysian flight to Hong Kong, which you sent him to personally witness and confirm.”
Tony was stunned by the revelation and the fact that Nasir had not told him of Sonji’s role in his near murder. He muttered, “You goddamned sons of bitches,” as Nasir concluded.
“If that were to be made known to the Kor Risik DiRaja, you would be hanged from the tallest gallows in the kingdom. I would suggest that if saving lives is not sufficient to secure your assistance, possibly saving your neck is.”
OCTOBER 18
Peshawar, Pakistan
Peshawar, the eastern gate to the Khyber Pass, had been a crossroads for war, trade, and intrigue for two millennia. With Sonji and Nasir Tony was about to thrust himself into this ancient and ongoing history. Having completed the contact promised, Roland Jeralewski left Kuala Lumpur in the Peninsular Gulfstream to return to the States.
The three men, who had met two days earlier and more than four thousand kilometers to the east, were sitting in the cellar of a mudthatched house on the western fringe of Peshawar. Joining them was a woman, her abaya concealing all but her dark eyes.
The meeting had already run an hour. There was underlying tension. By being alone with unrelated males, the woman was violating the Islamic law of Purdah, the same offense that had caused a nineteenyear-old victim of gang rape in Saudi Arabia to be imprisoned and given two hundred lashes; the same offense for which the three women in the goat yard would have been flogged had Tony and Amal not intervened.
The professor and Sonji had flattered and humored her and appealed to her best instincts of humanity. All to no avail.
Sonji requested that the others leave so that he could talk with the woman alone.
Standing in the brisk midmorning fall breeze, Tony and the professor observed the interplay among the people of this city teetering between the Middle Ages and modernity. A convoy of eighteen-wheel petroleum tankers headed west for Afghanistan was stopped by a leather-skinned, barefoot farmer as he struggled to herd his goats across the road. The combination of circumstances he was observing gave Tony a greater appreciation of the forces that had culminated in the slaughters in his own country, slaughters that had brought him to Peshawar.
Sonji emerged alone. “I have some, but not sufficient information,” he said. “As we suspected, the third attack site is America, somewhere on the Pacific Coast. The device is currently at sea on the Greek cargo container vessel Petronius. The device is to be detonated from on shore. She does not know by whom or how. She hopes to determine those answers but will need to return to the mountains to do so. It will be at least three more days before she can meet again. She is amazingly selfconfident and brave.”
Tony replied, “The next attack will be on October 31: thirteen days. Once we know the operational details, it will take time to devise and activate a plan of action. Can she get the information any faster?”
“I doubt it. I intend to stay here until I have the information.”
Sonji turned and disappeared into the house. Tony and the professor pondered their options.
Tony broke the silence. “I want to know more about the Petronius—where it is, who owns it, how to get access.”
Before departing Washington, anticipating the need to communicate from locations outside reliable cellular range, Tony had secured a State Department satellite phone.
“Ambassador Talbott, Tony. I’m in Peshawar with the professor and his former student from Kuala Lumpur. We have what I believe to be reliable intelligence. The bomb is on a Greek cargo ship, the Petronius, which is headed for a U.S. Pacific port. I am assuming the arrival date is on or before October 31.”
“I’ll check on that.”
“I have an acquaintance—Laura Billington, the photographer—who has contacts at the top echelons of the Greek government. She might be helpful in gaining access to the Petronius. Her London number is ...”
The phone went dead. Tony tried repeatedly to reconnect, but got no answer.
It was noon when Tony’s satellite rang. It was Laura.
“I have heard from Secretary Talbott. He told me about the Petronius and its cargo. I’ve talked with Prime Minister Alexandros Metaxas. He’s agreed to put me in contact with the owner of the ship, Aristotle Stephanous. I’ll attempt to arrange a shoot.”
Tony smiled. “You’re turning out to be quite a student of spy craft.” But the smile was quickly replaced by an expression of intense concern.
“Laura, if you are going to do anything, it has to be now. Call Stephanous. Make up some story about how close you are to the prime minister. The connection with power is the ultimate door-opener in
Athens. Tell him how personally intrigued you are with his life story and his big ships and that you want to show and tell the world about both from the deck of the Petronius.
“You’re good at making up wild tales, but this is no fictional story and it needs to happen in the next twelve days.”
“That’s a faster pace than even I am used to, but I’ll do my best.”
Again, the phone went dead.
OCTOBER 20
Khyber Pass, Pakistan
At Sonji’s suggestion, in order to be two hours closer to the woman, the three moved northwest to what had been a nineteenth-century British military officers’ encampment on the Afghan border, now converted to a Pakistani patrol station. In these surroundings, the poetry of Rudyard Kipling came vividly to life.
When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!
In October the sun set early at this latitude; by 6:30 it was midnight black. Tony’s satellite phone hummed.
“Tony, Laura. I’m working on the plan.”
“Okay, great, but we’re down to only ten days,” Tony warned.
Even over the static, it was clear Laura was miffed. “Tony, I haven’t been lollygagging over tea at the Dorchester. This morning I reached Stephanous in Paris. He’s a vain man who feels he is appreciated only for the size of his bank account and not his international importance. I promised him a display in a prestigious international magazine if he would arrange a dramatic setting for his portrait.”
Tony cut in, “It sounds like he deserves his pompous reputation.”
“The important thing is, he was receptive. Tomorrow morning he’s sending his Falcon to Gatwick to collect me and the crew. He hasn’t determined the specific logistics but will do so while we’re in the air.”
Tony was, at last, encouraged. “That’s a great start. I’m in the same shape you are—the
re’s more information required to get this job done. I hope to have it inside of three days.”
“Do you have any direction for me in the meantime?”
“This is what you need to do: Expect a package to be delivered to the Falcon while it’s on the ground at Gatwick. Place it in your equipment bag, wherever Stephanous is not going to discover it. It will contain an electrical box, instructions, and a satellite phone. Stay tuned; the places you’re likely to be aren’t Washington or London.”
Tony’s phone hummed with a call waiting. He closed with, “Laura, call me when you have more information, and I’ll do the same.” He clicked onto the waiting call.
“Tony, this is Talbott. Where in the hell are you?”
Tony started to quote from the opening of Kipling’s poem. Talbott was not in the mood for poetry.
“The Indians have concluded it was not Pakistan but bin Laden who blew up Mumbai, but they have already given orders to launch on Karachi. And they don’t know if they can pull it back. New Delhi has informed us, but they cannot get through to Islamabad. Stand by for further instructions.”
OCTOBER 21
Islamabad, Pakistan
The capital city of Pakistan was in advanced preparation for war. The main intersections were controlled by sandbagged patrol stations. A steady stream of cars and trucks jammed with riders made its way toward the hills north of Islamabad.
Talbott had directed Tony to take a bus during the night from Peshawar to Islamabad in hopes he could arrange a meeting with Maulana Fazullah, for five weeks the president of Pakistan. It was not going to be easy. The new president was consumed with the prospects of imminent war, and the U.S. embassy had been vacated. Tony arrived at the presidential headquarters tired, dirty, and stressed.
After submitting his U.S. State Department INR documents, he requested, in his best Arabic, a meeting with the president. The young lieutenant at the desk was unimpressed, motioning Tony to the already crowded, noisy waiting room. After a half hour with no discernable progress, Tony turned to the crude information brochures the new government had released and that were scattered throughout the room. He was taken with an announcement that under President Fazullah, General Mahmood Ahmed had resumed his former position as head of the Pakistani intelligence service, the ISI.