by Joseph Badal
“Thelees cafés?” Nick asked.
Stellides shrugged. “Coffee is fine, but I’d prefer ouzo.”
Nick laughed. “Ouzo it is.” He pointed at a taverna.
Stellides frowned. “That bastard Makris serves ouzo that tastes like piss. Let’s go to Voula’s place.”
Nick walked along with Stellides to a taverna a block away. There, they took seats at a table a few feet from the water and ordered ouzo and a bowl of olives. After their order was served, Nick said, “How’s your eyesight?”
Stellides scowled, then looked across the water at a ship that was at least two hundred yards away. “Do you see that ship?”
Nick nodded.
“What’s her name?”
Nick squinted. He took a pair of glasses from a shirt pocket. “No, I can’t read it from here.”
The old man laughed. “That’s the Orion. I can read the name on her bow, but don’t really need to. I’d know her anywhere.” He laughed again. “I’ve got the eyes of an eagle and the memory of a sixteen-year-old.” His face went sad as he added, “But I can’t always take care of the ladies.”
Nick didn’t think that was true. Stellides still had a reputation for keeping company with several old women in the area. “Listen, Deme, I need you to do something.”
“You have a job for me?”
“Sort of. Are you familiar with a tanker named the Kerkira?”
“That old bucket of bolts. Is she still afloat?”
“Apparently. Someone I know wants to find her.”
“Why doesn’t this person pull it up on AIS?”
“The ship’s AIS is malfunctioning. My friend believes the Kerkira is already, or will be, in Piraeus Bay soon and wants to know when it arrives.”
Stellides shot a suspicious look at Nick. “If the ship enters Piraeus Bay, it will have to report to the harbor master, take on a pilot. Just check with him. Or put someone in the harbor with binoculars.”
Stellides had always been a bit difficult. He was being particularly so now. “The ship may have changed its name.”
“So, the tanker’s AIS system is disabled and its name has changed.” He paused for a few seconds and said, “Tell me what’s going on, Nick.” But before Nick could respond, Stellides asked, “Does this have something to do with that terrorist scare?”
“It might have everything to do with that,” he said. “What my friend needs is someone who can recognize the Kerkira even if it’s changed its name.”
“I can do that,” Stellides said. “How much will I be paid?”
Nick felt his face go hot. His country was in danger and this old fart wanted money to help. “Are you—?”
The old man suddenly laughed and patted Nick’s arm. “I’m just kidding, Niko.”
CHAPTER 72
Ahmed Boukali couldn’t remember when the weather had been so beautiful for so long. The seas had been calm and the sky blue since the Kerkira had departed Tripoli. But now, at 1:30 p.m., there were plenty of signs that the weather would change. As the tanker entered the mouth of Piraeus Bay, gray clouds descended toward the water from over the hills behind the city of Piraeus. Those gray clouds were immediately followed by black ones that carried with them the promise of rain. At the same time, the sea became choppy and the Kerkira rolled heavily. Light rain fell and then turned to a downpour that obscured everything. Boukali could no longer see other ships, or the land on either side of the bay.
Jalil Fouad laughed at Boukali’s sour expression. “What’s wrong, Ahmed? You don’t like the weather?”
“I can’t see shit,” Boukali said.
“That’s why Allah gave us navigation devices. We don’t need to see anything. Besides, the Americans won’t be able to see us either. Come over here and look at the radar scope.”
Boukali stood next to Fouad, who stabbed at the monitor and said, “See that big blip on the screen? That’s the American aircraft carrier. We’re less than two hours from her position. It will take us two hours to reach the refinery, four hours to unload the cargo, and then another four hours to exit the harbor and approach the carrier. When do you plan to tell the crew to leave the ship?”
Boukali nodded thoughtfully. “You’ll need the crew to unload the oil and help get the ship moving again. We’ll leave the ship when we’re one hour from the mouth of the bay. Can you pinpoint the coordinates of about where that location will be?”
Fouad looked at Boukali skeptically. But he glanced at his navigational screen and read off coordinates. “Those are approximate, of course,” he said.
Boukali slapped Fouad on the back. “May the virgins in heaven be plump and beautiful.”
“I like my women thin and buxom.” He laughed and said, “Why would any man want seventy-two virgins? I’d take one red-headed whore who knows what she’s doing over seventy-two virgins anytime.”
Boukali chuckled as he donned a slicker. He walked out of the pilothouse into the downpour and crossed to the starboard side of the deck to the signal light mounted there. He flashed the light three times, waited thirty seconds, and then flashed the light again three times. The bad weather worried him. What if the men on shore couldn’t see the light? He held his breath as he peered toward shore. Then relief swamped him and he released the air in his lungs when a light flashed from shore. It was barely discernible in the mist and rain. Three times; then three times more. A moment later his cell phone rang. When he answered it, he said in Arabic, “Change in plans.” He read off the coordinates Fouad had provided. “Prepare for pickup in eight hours.”
Then Boukali went to the entrance to the engine and mechanical rooms and took the ladder down to the ramp that accessed the bow. He removed the heavy padlock and chain and pulled open the metal door. “How are things, Feramarz?” he said to the Iranian engineer. “Comfortable?”
“Please . . .” the little man begged. “I’m sorry if I offended you. I’ll—”
“Shut up. Try to go out with a little dignity. Look at it this way. How many people have died while they sat on top of a nuclear bomb?” Boukali laughed. He moved to the detonator on the nuclear device and reset the timer to 11 p.m. The bomb had been rigged with sensitivity switches that would ignite the explosives that would, in turn, detonate the warhead if the weapon was significantly jarred. But, in the alternative, the weapon would go off at eleven tonight under any circumstances. It was too bad, he thought, that the plan had to be altered. A nuclear explosion on a tanker loaded with crude oil would have been a truly glorious event. But the principal target had always been the aircraft carrier. If Fouad could just get within three miles of the carrier, the blast would severely damage the ship, kill and injure many Americans, and then the fallout would add to the pain and suffering. Nothing ever quite works out as it should, he thought. But at least the nuclear device would detonate. That would be a victory in and of itself. If the Americans attacked the Kerkira, their missiles and bombs would activate the sensitivity switches and detonate the device. If they didn’t attack the tanker, the weapon would go off at the pre-set time, when the tanker was still close enough to Piraeus and Athens to cause fatalities and injuries.
Boukali patted Alizadeh’s cheek and left the room.
CHAPTER 73
Laila was deep in thought when a shadow dropped like a dark cloud over the face of her computer. She turned to her left and saw Willy Gerhardt, the company’s founder and president. The old man’s cadaver-like features always set her on edge. Sunken cheeks; prominent facial bones; tight, translucent skin; and dead eyes.
“Was machen sie?” the old man asked in his harsh and haughty German accent that had been irreconcilably tainted with a slight British lilt from his years in English private schools.
“Just my usual daily tasks, sir.”
“I see,” he said. “Please come with me; I want to discuss something with you.”
Laila stood, smoothed her skirt, and followed Old Man Gloom down the hall. She slowed as they approached his office, but was surpris
ed when Gerhardt walked past it and continued to the elevator lobby. One of the security men stood there and held one of the elevator doors open.
“Danke, Hans,” the old man said. He used a hand to indicate he wanted Laila to enter the car and then followed her inside. Hans trailed them and allowed the door to close.
“Where are we going?” Laila asked tremulously.
Gerhardt looked down at her through hooded eyes. “I want you to meet one of our most important clients.”
Laila’s nervousness escalated when she noticed Hans had pushed the button for the parking level. Her knees shook and her mouth went dry. The odor of Gerhardt’s cologne suddenly seemed overpowering, nauseating in the enclosed space.
“What client?” she asked.
“You shall see, my dear,” Gerhardt answered.
Laila glanced down at her watch and noticed it was almost 2 p.m., the time she daily called Walter Zeller’s cover number at the camera shop. One ring and then she would hang up. Then she would repeat the process. That told Zeller all was well.
The elevator dropped to the parking level. When the door opened, Laila saw two men in suits who waited just outside the elevator door. A third man in a suit, wreathed in smoke, a cigarette between his lips, wore dark glasses, and stood at the side of a white van ten feet behind them. Hans put an arm around Laila’s shoulders and guided her outside the elevator car. He lightly pushed her into the arms of the two men. Just before the elevator door closed, Gerhardt wagged a finger at her and said, “You’ve been a very naughty girl, my dear.”
Walter Zeller felt a tremor vibrate through him when his private phone line at the camera shop didn’t ring at 2 p.m. His initial thought was, “That’s a first.” His next thought was that something bad had happened. As with all his field agents, Laila had a specific check-in time. The only time an agent ever failed to make their call was when he or she had a problem. Laila had been religious for two years about her daily calls. Zeller didn’t hesitate to raise the alarm. He sent a Flash Traffic email message to Ray Gallegos. Despite the time in D.C., Gallegos called Zeller back within two minutes.
“What’s up?”
“Laila missed her call-in. We need to send someone over to GA.”
“The DCI has something in the works. I need to check with him before you take action.”
“I’m worried, Ray.”
“I know, Walt. Give me fifteen minutes.”
Ray called Tanya and told her that Laila was very possibly compromised and in danger. “We need to call the DCI. He’s got to pull the trigger on the operation he’s arranged with the Bundes Nachrichtendienst. They need to raid the Gerhardt Anlageberatungs offices.”
“That might not happen as quickly as we would like, Ray.”
“Tanya, I’ve never disobeyed an order in my life. I’ve been loyal to a fault to you and the Company. But if the DCI doesn’t do everything possible to help Laila, I’ll take matters into my own hands.”
“Calm down, Ray. I’ll get right back to you.”
Tanya called Jack Cole. “I need to see you,” she told him.
“I’m about to go into—”
“Possible agent in distress.” She didn’t want to tell him anymore than that over the phone. It wasn’t that she worried about security. The line she was on was as secure as any line on the planet. It was that she wanted to be face-to-face with Cole. It was always easier to turn someone down over the phone than in a face-to-face setting.
“You don’t need me involved. You’ve got the authority.”
“Not when B.N. needs to be involved.”
“Maybe I should come down there,” Cole said. “If we need to take rapid action, it would be better to have access to all possible communications equipment.”
Despite her effort to remain calm, Laila felt sweat pour off her. Her wrists and ankles were tied and a gag had been stuffed in her mouth. The two men at the elevator had thrown her in the back of a windowless van and trussed her up. Plastic restraints around her wrists and ankles cut into her skin. They’d taped a rag over her eyes and stuffed a foul-tasting cloth in her mouth. The third man drove the vehicle from the parking garage. The ride had lasted less than ten minutes. The blindfold had been removed after she was secured to a hard backed chair. The two men who had bound her stood a few feet away on either side of the chair. The third man, cigarette in hand and still wearing dark glasses, sat in front of her and stared. This would be the interrogator, Laila thought.
Laila looked around. The chair she was in was in the middle of a basketball court-sized warehouse, with bare light bulbs inside little metal cages that hung from the concrete ceiling on ten-foot electric cords. The lights were in eight rows, with four bulbs in each row. The only row that was lit was the one that included the light suspended directly over her head. She tried to make out what else was in the building but there was too little light from the four illuminated bulbs and no light penetrated the painted windows and skylights. The only smells she detected were of dust, the odor of wet concrete, and the cigarette smoke pall that seemed to hang over the interrogator.
“Miss Farhami,” the man said, “we know from your log-ins on Gerhardt Anlageberatungs’s computer that you have put a great deal of effort into studying GA’s trading activities and attempting to determine the identities of the company’s clients. I will ask you several questions about why that is so. I assure you that you must fully and honestly answer my questions. If you do not, you will pay a severe price.”
Laila shuddered. If Willy Gerhardt had wanted to know why she had tried to identify company clients he could easily have asked her. Being taken to this warehouse under these circumstances did not bode well for her continued role as a GA employee. In fact, that was the least of her concerns. She had no doubt this was an interrogation that would end in her death.
She flinched as the man in front of her reached toward her. She thought he might strike her but all he did was jerk the gag from her mouth. She rolled her tongue around in her mouth, which was dry as desert sand.
“Give her some water,” the interrogator said.
The man on her left walked behind her and returned with a plastic bottle of water. He held it to her mouth and let her drink one swallow.
“Is that better?” the interrogator asked.
She nodded as she thought about her CIA training at the Farm. She needed to play the innocent and try to delay the interrogation as much as possible. She had a momentary thought about Walter Zeller: Had he reacted as soon as she failed to make the 2 p.m. call? He was her only hope.
The interrogator opened his mouth but she cut him off. “Why have you brought me here?” she wailed. “I don’t understand. I have been a hard-working, loyal employee of Gerhardt Anlageberatungs for over two years.” It didn’t take much to force herself to cry. She hoped the sniveling, teary image she portrayed would make the man question his mission, her guilt.
He shot her a gleaming, toothy smile. “Now, now, Miss Farhami. Please don’t think I am a fool. I want to be nice, but if you insult me I will become very angry.”
Laila hadn’t really focused on the man in front of her. She did now. His skin was mocha-colored and his hair jet-black and slicked back. He had a thick black unibrow and his eyes were as black as shark’s eyes and similarly unexpressive. He seemed to be very fit, like a distance runner. His hands were almost delicate, with long, thin fingers and manicured nails. All in all, he was handsome, in a Middle Eastern way. The man’s appearance and quiet voice seemed to be more sinister and thus more frightening than if he had been thick, muscular, and loud.
She sniffed once and continued to weep. “I don’t know what you want. I don’t understand.”
The interrogator shook his head. He looked almost sad as he stood and walked to a far, dark corner of the warehouse. As he disappeared, one of the other men stepped in front of her, removed his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and put on leather gloves. He widened his stance, and punched her in the face. She felt and heard s
omething break in her mouth. He gave her a chance to spit out tooth fragments and then hit her again. And again. Her head. Her body. Her head. Her body. The beating went on for a good two minutes. When the man stopped, he was winded and sweating. Laila was dazed and wracked with pain. But she actually felt relief. Maybe the beating was over. But the first man stepped aside and the second man stepped up. He had only hit her twice when all went dark.
CHAPTER 74
As soon as Tanya told him that Laila Farhami had not checked in, Jack Cole called his counterpart at the Bundes Nachrichtendienst and told him the Clean Sweep Operation they had planned needed to be executed without delay. Joachim Langer, the Director of the Bundes Nachrichtendienst had been a field agent at the end of the Cold War and was the antithesis of some headquarters bureaucrat willing to sacrifice agents for political reasons. He deployed plain clothes agents, uniformed police, and a squad of cyber technicians in a massive raid of Gerhardt Anlageberatungs’ Berlin offices. While the uniformed police secured the outside of the building and exits on each floor, and the cyber experts took control of GA’s servers and computers, the B.N.’s plainclothes intelligence agents forcibly took all of the company’s senior officers into custody, handcuffed them, and segregated them in separate offices. Joachim Langer and one of his agents took charge of Willy Gerhardt.
Langer was amazed at Gerhardt’s pallor. The man looked dead, but he detected plenty of life in his eyes, despite the evil that seemed to spew from them like hot rays from hell. He stood in front of Gerhardt and showed him his index finger.
“You have one chance to save yourself. If you don’t take that chance, we will ship you and every member of your family to a place where you will disappear. No more skiing trips to Gstaad. No more vacations at your lake house.”