The Jericho Sanction

by Oliver North

  The Secretary slammed the phone down. She got up from her desk, grabbed her coat and purse, and strode out of her office.

  As she exited the inner office, she almost collided with a man she didn't recognize—and he was holding her briefcase.

  “Who are you? What are you doing on this floor? And what are you doing with my briefcase?”

  The man smiled warmly and extended his hand. “Good afternoon, Madam Secretary. My name is Bob Hallstrom, FBI, and I work here in the building too. My office is on the second floor. On weekends, whenever I'm in, I make a security check of the various floors. I get off the elevator and look around on each floor, you know? Well, I got off on this floor and saw the door of your suite open, and this briefcase on the front desk, in full view of the hallway. Since I noticed your initials by the handle and I thought it might have some important documents in it, I was on my way to call the security desk in the lobby and have them lock it up. I thought you might have accidentally left it here when you departed for the weekend on Friday. Sorry for startling you.”

  The Secretary of State looked at the man's identity badge. His name and “FBI” were prominently displayed on it, along with his photograph.

  “I wouldn't want just anyone finding your briefcase and pawing through your private papers,” Hallstrom said, handing her the briefcase.

  The Secretary gave an inward grimace. She had carelessly left valuable classified documents and a notebook computer containing top secret data in view of the hallway, where it could easily have fallen into the wrong hands.

  “Thank you...Mr. Hallstrom.” She put the case under her arm and headed for the elevator.

  “No problem, ma'am. Enjoy the rest of your Sunday.”

  When the elevator doors closed behind her, Hallstrom reached into the drawer on the table where the briefcase had been left. He removed the ten pages of material he had photocopied from documents in her briefcase, pages that he had run off on the nearby copier while she was in her office on the telephone. Then, after looking both ways down the hallway, he reached into the drawer again and retrieved the two 3.5-inch computer disks onto which he had downloaded files from her notebook computer.

  The Secretary of State had been in a hurry, Hallstrom guessed—too big of a hurry to finish shutting down her computer. When the Shutdown box had come up on the screen in the closed computer and gotten no password-protected command to completely power off the device, the screen had simply reverted to the most recently opened window—the e-mail message to the President, sent via the State Department's message center.

  It wasn't the first time he'd gleaned sensitive data from an unguarded computer. He'd even begun carrying blank disks with himon his weekend “security” tours of the building, against just such a possibility. He put the disks into his trousers pockets, folded the papers, and slipped them into his inside coat pocket. Then the spy walked over to the elevator.

  In his office for the next hour, FBI Special Agent Robert Hallstrom busied himself with reading the purloined material. When he had finished, he carefully wrapped the documents around the two disks containing the downloaded files from the Secretary's computer and placed them inside a plastic bag. Then, he turned to his computer and began typing.

  “Dear General Komulakov…”

  Armenian Church Grounds

  Port Said Street

  Baghdad, Iraq Monday, 23 March 1998

  0730 Hours, Local

  A note was shoved under Peter Newman's door at the Al Rashid at about 0300. Newman knew the time because he heard several hard raps on the door and he had looked at his watch when he sprang out of bed. But when he got to the door, there was no one there—only the scrap of paper on the floor by his feet, with the words, written in block letters in English, “Meet me at the Armenian Church on Port Said Street in the morning, as soon as possible after the curfew is lifted.”

  Newman might have dismissed the note as a trap or a setup, except that at the end of the note, instead of a signature, he recognized the twin overlapping curves of the symbolic emblem carried by Bill Goode, George Grisham, Eli Yusef, and Samir Habib—the same one that was on the door of the hospice in Jerusalem—the simple outline of a fish.

  He left his hotel as soon as it was light and legal, and walked up Sa'adon Street, then north a few blocks past Tahrir Square. As he walked, he noticed that despite the stories he had read about the hardship and starvation caused by the UN embargo, the people he saw on the street seemed reasonably well off and appeared to be making their way to their places of work, albeit with relatively few cars.

  He occasionally stopped at a stall or a storefront to check for anyone following him, but he concluded that either there were dozens on the surveillance detail or none; he could find no trace of a tail.

  He crossed Port Said Street and walked east to Al Khifah Street, where he turned and continued walking toward the Al Gailiani Mosque. When he came to the mosque, he turned and walked parallel on the walkway alongside the huge building for a block, until he got to Nidhal Street; then he doubled back in the direction he had come. Quite certain by now that no one was following, he continued down Nidhal Street, back across Port Said Street, until he came to the Armenian Church.

  In the churchyard, Newman waited for several minutes under a huge shade tree on the corner, keeping well inside the shadows. Then, checking his watch, he strode along the old stone path toward the back of the church grounds, where there was a small courtyard. He waited for another moment, then walked over to a bench near the ancient cemetery. He sat down to wait.

  Less than five minutes later, Newman saw another figure approach from the direction he had just come. The slightly built man, dressed in dark slacks, a black cotton shirt with an open collar, and a dark brown suit coat that didn't match his trousers, looked around almost furtively. He saw Newman, walked over to the bench, and sat down. Newman guessed from his face that the man was in his late thirties, but his gait was that of a man much older.

  “How do you do?” the man said in perfect, Arabic-accented English. “My name is Dizha. My friend Samir said you are looking for a guide.” At this the young man held up something in the palm of his hand—a tiny metal fish, little more than an inch long.

  Newman relaxed, smiled, pointed at the tiny emblem, and said, “He is my guide too.” He then held out his hand. “My name is Ram Fales.”

  Dizha continued to look about the churchyard as he spoke. “Samir told me what you are looking for. I have made some inquiries among my friends who carry the sign of the fish, and I am afraid that what you are seeking is no longer here.”

  “No longer here? How do you know?”

  “Mr. Fales,” Dizha began, “you must understand, my information is credible. I am not entirely what I appear. I may be a poor, humbled man today, but until 1994 I held an important position...a Ph.D. and assistant to Dr. Khidir Hamza...the man in charge of our atomic energy program. I worked at the Tarmiya magnetic enrichment plant, and I was one of his engineers at the Al-Atheer facility when he defected. Because I was close to Dr. Hamza, I was imprisoned on suspicion of having helped him escape; but by the grace of God, I was not killed with the others. Still, since I got out of prison, I am only allowed to work as a laborer on highway projects.”

  “Not many are lucky enough to get out of prison alive. Were you tortured in prison?”

  “Yes...many times...nearly every week. Some days I used to pray that God would let me die.” And then he added with a wry smile, looking directly at Newman, “Isn't it good that we have a merciful God who knows better than we how to answer our prayers?”

  Newman nodded. Dizha continued in a voice just above a whisper.

  “It is my understanding from the inquiries I made at Samir's request that, much to my surprise, there really must have been three nuclear devices hidden here. I had heard rumors about it ever since Hussein Kamil had defected, but I thought that if Iraq had acquired them, the government would have probably used them by now. Strangely, just a week a
go—after I had dismissed the rumors as false—one of my former colleagues at Atomic Energy told me about Saddam's son, Qusay, searching all over the country for three nuclear artillery rounds that Kamil had purchased from the Russians.”

  “The Russians? Are you sure?”

  “Well, I cannot be positive, because I did not see them. But from what I know of Soviet nuclear weapon design, it sounds right. That also fits with another story I learned from a fellow believer who works with me at the Department of Highways. My friend is in Division Three, the place where they keep the records of who uses the highways, what vehicles go where, what trucks are carrying, and where they are going. It's supposed to help stop the black market. My friend says that a few days ago, a Ukrainian—well known here for acquiring materials and equipment banned by sanctions—arrived in Baghdad. Coincidently, he has offices in the same hotel where you are staying. According to my friend, the Ukrainian arrived with an empty truck, significant amounts of money, and four of his countrymen.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “They are gone, and if my friends are correct, they took with them what you seek.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “I am not sure, but my friend in Division Three told me he saw a routine report from two nights ago, from a police unit in Al Habbaniyah. The police inspected a truck transporting three large crates. Two men, carrying Ukrainian passports, were driving the vehicle. Three other Ukrainians were in a Mercedes sedan, accompanying the truck.”

  “And you guys get all that information just from your daily traffic reports? Amazing—but where could they have gone?”

  “I do not know yet,” said Dizha, getting up to leave. “But my supposition is the truck and its cargo are now back where they came from. If I am correct, I should know for certain this afternoon. But Mr. Fales, it is too dangerous for us to meet again. I will tell Samir when I find out for sure.”

  Newman rose as well; as the other started to depart, he put his hand out and said, “Thank you for all you have done, Dizha. You may have helped to prevent a terrible tragedy. I'll pray for you and your family— it's got to be tough to be a Christian here.”

  “Thank you. And I shall pray for you...and your wife. Samir told me about her.”

  “One last question: Dizha, if you were to make an educated guess, where do you think the weapons have been taken?”

  The Iraqi looked Newman in the eye. byna.

  FREEFALL TOWARD DISASTER

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  International Scientific Trading, Ltd.

  At Tanf, Syria

  Monday, 23 March 1998

  1115 Hours, Local

  General Dimitri Komulakov's Lear 35 touched down on the east end of the runway precisely on time. He loved this fast little jet and the exquisite irony of having two Swiss pilots flying a “retired” Russian KGB officer in an American-made aircraft to this tiny spot in the Syrian desert. The plane taxied into the hangar with IST Ltd. printed above the door and began the shutdown routine. When the copilot finally opened the hatch in front of the left wing, Leonid Dotensk was standing there, wearing the biggest smile Komulakov had ever seen on the Ukrainian's face.

  The two men shook hands, and Dotensk gave the former KGB officer a great bear hug that made the general wonder whether his friend had been drinking. The Ukrainian asked, “Did you have a good flight, General? I thought maybe you would bring your friend, Miss Sjogren. Are you rested, General?”

  “Leonid, take a breath. What are you prattling on about? Why are you so excited?”

  “Come with me. I have something to show you.”

  Komulakov resisted at first, then followed Dotensk to the large, adjoining building that housed the vehicles. Dotensk bounded up on the back of the truck and threw off the tarpaulin that covered the cargo that was still inside. He made a grand gesture and bowed.

  “Do you recognize these?”

  “No...should I?”

  “My dear General...This truck contains our newest and sweetest fortune.”

  “Are you drunk, Leonid?”

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Dotensk laughed. “I am drunk with success! These are the three nuclear weapons we sold to Hussein Kamil in '95. He had hidden them—buried them in a remote part of the Iraqi desert. And I have recovered them!”

  “You're joking.”

  “No, General. I recalled a place Kamil took me—without his bodyguards, a place he assumed no one else knew. Anyway, I went there yesterday...found them...dug them up...and, here they are! Now I can sell them back to Saddam.”

  Komulakov smiled. “You never fail to surprise me, Leonid. I always seem to underestimate you. I'm sorry. You are to be congratulated.”

  “Oh, my dear General. I want more than your congratulations this time. I want a bigger commission for my sale. After all, without me, we could not be selling this shipment back to the Iraqis at a fat profit. You owe me that, General.”

  Komulakov smiled. “What do you think is fair?”

  “Fifty percent.”

  “Thirty-three percent,” Komulakov said, evenly. “It's a far better deal than I gave you the first time. Besides...greed only leads to other sins.”

  Dotensk blinked, and for a moment was silent.

  “All right. Thirty-three it is.”

  Komulakov studied the Ukrainian's face carefully for a moment, then turned toward the offices and living quarters.

  “Leonid, get on the phone with Saddam's second son and tell him we can deliver these right away. But be careful. Remember whom you're dealing with. They must not know you're selling them something they've already paid for.”

  “Don't worry, General. I'll take care of everything.” Dotensk jumped down from the truck and followed Komulakov toward the offices.

  Komulakov pointed toward the two-story barracks building next to their living quarters. “How are our two female guests?” “Fine.”

  “I'm going to pay them a visit,” said the general and ordered one of the pilots, “Have my bags put in my room.”

  As Komulakov entered the front door of the building, a large man in an unpressed khaki uniform rose from behind a desk.

  “Show me where the women are kept,” said Komulakov.

  They walked up the stairs and down the hallway to a solid steel door, where another armed man was posted.

  “Open the door for me, Vasili,” Komulakov said.

  The guard produced a key and unlocked the door. The general walked inside the room.

  The two women, seated at a small, plain, wooden table, looked up, startled, from the books they were reading. Both of them stood and backed away from him, toward the rear wall.

  Komulakov looked at the austere furnishings: two steel beds with thin mattresses and coarse woolen blankets, the small desk, two chairs, a single overhead light bulb, and one small, high window with bars on the outside. He nodded approvingly.

  “Good morning, ladies. I trust your accommodations are suitable. Have they fed you yet today?”

  Dyan shook her head, while Rachel gave no response.

  “I'm sorry to hear that. I will see that you receive a hot meal within the hour.”

  “When are you going to let us go?” asked Rachel.

  The Russian looked at the American woman. She was wearing the same black robes she had been given shortly after her capture, and she looked as if she hadn't bathed or brushed her hair in some time. Still …

  “Mrs. Newman...come over here.”

  Rachel did not move.

  “Please. I want to talk to you about your release. Please come over here.”

  Rachel inched toward him.

  “While you are waiting for your meal, I will permit you both to use the bath. There are hot water, soap, shampoo, and towels. You may want to clean up before you eat. And I'll get you some clean clothes.”

  “Thank you,” said Dyan quietly.

  “When are you going to let us go?” Rachel said again. Her voice had even more edge this time.

  “It sh
ouldn't be long. Meanwhile, I'll try to make your stay as comfortable as possible,” Komulakov said. “I'm sorry I can't permit you to telephone your husbands because they surely would try to trace the calls...” He stepped closer to Rachel. “...and that just wouldn't work, I'm afraid.” The Russian reached out and stroked Rachel's face with the back of his hand.

  She pulled back and glared at him. “What kind of man is such a coward that he has to kidnap a woman and take her from her baby just to blackmail her husband? You're really some piece of work, you snake!”

  Komulakov laughed. “Now, now...I don't want to have to take away your bath privileges for such impertinence. But I will if you persist in such ill manners.”

  Rachel turned away angrily, shook her head, and looked back at Komulakov with a fierce, unflinching stare.

  He laughed again and left the room, locking it behind him. He almost collided with Dotensk in the hallway.

  “Excuse me, General...I wanted to make sure that you found the prisoners' situation satisfactory.”

  “Yes, well, Leonid, you've never had much sensitivity when it comes to women. I told them they could have a hot meal...and bath...and have a change of clothing on a regular basis. See to it.”

  “Yes, General. I will see to it right now.”

  Komulakov grabbed his arm. “Just a minute, Leonid. I thought of something else.”

  “Yes?”

  “I was thinking, after you sell the weapons back to Saddam, you should contact some of our friends and spread the word that Saddam has the weapons. But make sure to tell them the weapons came from Chechnya. I want to stir things up in Moscow and keep Yeltsin busy. I want him putting out so many fires and answering so many questions from the international press and foreign diplomats that he doesn't have time to think about the presidential elections in 2000. In fact, we need an entire strategy to keep him occupied. We must find more ways to discredit Putin, since he's apparently Yeltsin's intended heir. See what you can come up with for our friends in Chechnya.”