The Ericksen Connection

Home > Other > The Ericksen Connection > Page 12
The Ericksen Connection Page 12

by Barry Becker


  Their eyes were glued to the TV monitor where an Al-Jazeera anchorman spoke:

  “The Red Sea Brotherhood claimed responsibility for the attack on Cleopatra’s Resort Hotel and The Regal Crown Resort Hotel. This is the first time we’ve learned of this terrorist group. Their brief communiqué made no mention of their motive. The world is in shock as to the magnitude of the violence perpetrated on the hundreds of innocent people who lost their lives the other night.”

  Campbell clicked the remote and shut off the television monitors. Norstad stood. “All of the participants registered under aliases

  and the meeting on the hotel reader board listed the organization as Global Warming Symposium.”

  “Apparently they targeted the intelligence chiefs,” the square- jawed Geiger said.

  “Most of you witnessed President Porterfield’s anger in the Situa- tion Room today. Our number one objective is capturing or termi- nating these terrorists. Does anyone have anything on the Red Sea Brotherhood?” Campbell asked as he adjusted his rimless glasses.

  “We have nothing, sir. We identified Aladdin Oil and Gas Explo- ration as the registered owner of The Dolphin Prince. Last night, Saudi time, our satellites located the mega-yacht anchored a mile from Yanbu,” Norstad said, as she pressed a few buttons on the remote to activate the monitors. “Satellite thermal imaging showed a Zodiac boat brought three people to the Yanbu Marina. An SUV picked them up and drove them to the Yanbu airport. A couple of private jets took off over the course of the next several hours.”

  Campbell asked, “Any ID on the aircraft?” “No.”

  A staffer knocked on the window to the SCIF and motioned for Geiger to come out. He stood up and left the room. A staffer handed him a secure landline portable phone. “Geiger here.”

  “It’s Sullivan.”

  “Thank God you’re still alive. We’re in the bubble at ODNI.” He turned and whispered into the phone, “Campbell scheduled a meeting with the Saudi Interior Minister and General Al-Jabr for Monday, May 25, in Riyadh.”

  “Pete, let me talk to Campbell. Patch the call into the bubble and place it on the secure speakerphone.”

  A few minutes later, Geiger motioned to Campbell. “Bill’s on the line. He wants to speak with you.”

  Campbell adjusted his glasses. “Happy to hear you’re okay.” Sullivan asked, “Any new developments?”

  “Nothing yet. Pete probably told you that we’d scheduled a meeting in Riyadh.”

  “I’ve developed good relationships with both men over the years, and nothing productive will be gained.”

  “We just left the Situation Room, and the President wants action now.”

  “They’re not going to level with us. They can’t risk any more embarrassment,” Sullivan said.

  “What do you mean?’

  “How many Saudis do you think are sympathetic to Bin Laden and this new terrorist group?”

  “Bill, you might have a point – but I’m sorry, I’m overruling you on this issue.”

  “You’re making a mistake; A big mistake.” The line went dead. Geiger scanned the room and looked directly at Campbell. “Sul-

  livan has a good point. The meeting in Riyadh wouldn’t generate any significant information because our relationship with the Royal Family is based on lip service and cash for oil.”

  29

  eneral Al-Jabr greeted the interior minister in the palace’s national security conference room. “Those cowards, murderers, they’ll pay a high price for killing the prince

  and members of our delegation,” Al-Jabr said in Arabic.

  “If they’re captured alive I’ll personally have their heads meet the blade of my sword.”

  The general nodded in agreement. “I don’t know what Campbell expects to accomplish with our upcoming meeting.”

  The interior minister’s face turned red with anger. “I can’t under- stand why the National Intelligence Director needs to see us unless he thinks we’re involved in this shit.”

  Campbell reviewed a top secret report on the Hurghada terrorist attack with Lucas, Geiger, and two staffers. A “ping” sounded, and Campbell clicked on his secure computer and opened the email. Campbell glanced at his screen. “Director Campbell, we won’t be able to meet you on May 25. However, we would like to reschedule some- time in July at your office. Best regards, General Al-Jabr.”

  He slammed his fist on the desk, his face flushed. “Damn it! The General just canceled our meeting. Those fucking assholes.” Another “ping” sounded from Campbell’s computer.

  He opened the email, “My sources have informed me that the mastermind of the Hurghada and Sharm El-Sheikh attacks is now planning a nuclear suitcase bomb attack on American soil. I’m going to Switzerland next week to pursue these leads with Saudi Intelli- gence. Please keep a lid on this until I get back to you. Bill.”

  Campbell slammed his fist again on the desk. “I would love to fire his ass. He acts as if I work for him.”

  “There’s no way the President will be making any changes at the Agency,” Lucas said.

  “Hank, you and Defense Secretary Helms pushed for Sullivan over my objections when President Ridgeway considered him for the job. He has been a fucking thorn in my side throughout his CIA career. In Switzerland, he didn’t follow my orders when he was station chief.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  “How many station chiefs listen to their ambassadors?” asked Lucas.

  Campbell’s eyes narrowed, and his face got red. “Let’s drop it.” “Steve, you have to give him credit. Over the past three years,

  Sullivan delivered results as the director of clandestine operations. I trust his judgment,” Lucas said.

  Deputy Director Norstad coughed and interrupted them. “Up on the monitor is a photo of a man who got off The Dolphin Prince and entered the airport terminal at Yanbu. We identified him as Omar Al- Naima, an Al-Qaeda terrorist from Yemen. We couldn’t find a match for the other two men. We ran checks throughout our global data- base and came up with nada.”

  30

  ullivan entered the hospital lobby dressed in a blue blazer and a pair of khaki slacks, and carrying his laptop. He greeted his doctor. “Colonel, thanks for everything.”

  “We’re going to miss you, sir.” Sullivan’s security detail stood nearby.

  His CIA and military security detail escorted him into a black Hummer. One Hummer rode in the lead and another one behind Sullivan’s vehicle as they left Landstuhl’s hospital for the short drive to Ramstein Air Force Base.

  The Air Force’s security guards waved Sullivan’s security detail past the exit gate. Sullivan’s Hummer approached the CIA Gulf- stream G550 by the hanger. He got out of the vehicle and walked up the airstairs to the jet, receiving a welcome greeting by the CIA pilot, an aide, and two jet assistants.

  He walked into the luxurious accommodations, slumped down on one of the executive-type leather seats, removed his laptop computer from the case, opened it up, and started the biometrics security log-on. He heard a ring on his secure smartphone.

  “Hello.”

  “Swordsman speaking. A major meeting will be held tomorrow between the mastermind of the Red Sea Brotherhood and his prin- cipal terrorists at Al-Bustani Group of Companies headquarters in Jeddah. It will be in the chairman’s office on the tenth floor. See you in six days.”

  31

  olfgang Beltermann, a tall, muscular German with a salt and pepper beard and hair, approached the large oak door that led into the chairman of Al-Bustani Group of

  Companies’ office in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. The bodyguard stood ten feet from the entrance with his pistol holstered and waved him to enter. Abdullah and Omar sat on a large, dark brown leather sofa. Beltermann flopped down on the burgundy-colored leather chair. Four other members were in attendance as well as Khalid’s oldest son, Faisal, his chief security director. Ziad walked by the window overlooking a parking lot a few hundred yards away. He rubbed his eyes with his h
and, turned and walked slowly to a leather chair and slumped down in it.

  A minute later, a Hummingbird robot drone maintained a holding pattern directly outside Khalid’s office window. Equipped with a video camera and zoom lens, the drone transmitted images back to the CIA’s unmarked van three hundred meters from the office. Another Agency shot a laser ear microphone to the chairman’s tenth-floor suite window from their parked van on the street two hundred meters away. The system transmitted an invisible infra-red beam to the window, causing a slight vibration from the window

  panel and generating a modulated sound that was converted into electronic signals by the receiver in the Agency’s van, and started recording the meeting.

  Khalid sat behind an intricately designed rosewood desk. His expensive oil paintings and Persian rugs adorned the room. On the wall behind his desk hung a photograph of a beautiful, chestnut- colored Arabian racehorse in a gold-etched frame. On the bottom of the frame was laser-engraved the horse’s name, Falcon Dancer.

  “Good morning,” Beltermann said in Arabic.

  Khalid asked, “Any new information on the American company’s classified biometrics system?”

  The forty-seven-year-old former East German Stasi spy had served in Dresden as a junior counterespionage intel officer for the East German Government until their government fell in 1990. Belter- mann leaned forward, “George said the CIA and NSA’s beta-tested systems from EyeD4 Systems were flawless. George also claimed that NSA designed the encryption software so that no foreign intelligence agency could hack into it.”

  Khalid thought. Al-Gosaibi said the same thing.

  “I think it’s better to keep it simple. Don’t forget 9/11,” Abdullah said.

  He shook his head in disbelief. “I know what I’m doing. The Americans monitor and profile anyone who looks like an Arab.” He continued, “George and Wolfgang believe the next attack demands stealth technology.”

  Khalid thought Abdullah looks disappointed.

  Abdullah folded his hands together. “I respect your point of view, but how do you expect to acquire a classified American intelligence covert security system?”

  Khalid smiled. “Abdullah, leave that up to me. The Hurghada and Sharm El-Sheikh bombings have put the Red Sea Brotherhood on the map. The CIA Director got lucky this time.”

  He stood and raised his hand in a fist and continued. “We will strike the American Satan in his homeland and teach the infidels a lesson for their invasion and occupation of Muslim countries, and exploiting our oil resources.”

  Abdullah stood and raised a fist. “The rivers will flow with the infidels’ blood.”

  Ziad yelled, “Inshallah.”

  Everyone joined in: “Allahu Akbar.”

  Khalid excused the group except for Abdullah, Ziad, Faisal, and Beltermann.

  Faisal directed the command center on the first floor with two guards protecting access at all times. Within the heart of the security operation was television monitors that observed everything within the facility as well as the external building complex. When Khalid entered his office, the video cameras shut down for security reasons. Whenever he wasn’t present, Faisal would press a device under his desk that activated three security cameras. This action enabled the security department to monitor any movement within his suite.

  Khalid walked by the large photograph of Falcon Dancer. He slid the picture to the right, exposing a medium-sized wall safe with a fingerprint scanner. He placed his right index finger on the tiny optical scanner, within five seconds the system read his fingerprint, and matched it with his stored fingerprint template in the computer. He opened the safe. From a distance of thirteen feet, bundles of cash, watches, passports, and several envelopes were visible. He reached into the safe and pulled out a large envelope. He opened the enve- lope. It contained two hundred thousand dollars in one-hundred- dollar-bill denominations. He gave one hundred thousand dollars each to both Abdullah and Beltermann.

  “In time you’ll meet with Casino and Cowboy. They both are the Red Sea Brotherhood’s sleeper cell leaders. Soon, you’ll activate them in Las Vegas and Houston for the upcoming nuke attack. I trained both men in Afghanistan during the Soviet occupation. Casino is an Albanian, and Cowboy is a Chechen. They emigrated to the USA in 1990.”

  He turned back toward the safe and closed it. “Each man is willing to die for our cause. They know they’ll be notified soon to meet and expect to take their orders from you.”

  Abdullah looked at Al-Bustani. “Who else knows about our mission?” Khalid walked toward a map of the world and pointed to

  the USA. “Our operations are highly compartmentalized for obvious reasons. Ziad will have a role in our initial planning phase, which will be defined soon.” Ziad nodded. Al-Bustani continued, “You’ll get the information promptly. Any questions?”

  “I hope they can be counted on.”

  He glanced at Abdullah. “This operation will not fail. Over the past year, I’ve been to both Las Vegas and Houston twice coordinating it. You can trust them to execute your orders.”

  “Your word is good enough for me,” Beltermann said.

  Khalid looked at Beltermann and Ziad. “Please excuse me, but I need to talk with Abdullah and Faisal.” The two left his office.

  The Hummingbird drone had three minutes left on its battery life.

  “I have made an appointment for you and Abdullah to meet Dr. Raja Gull. He is a nuclear physicist who works at the Nuclear Research Institute in Pakistan. He is interested in working with us. He will be with Hafiz Tariq, a top advisor of the Pakistani Taliban, and your old Al-Qaeda friend, Saad Al-Fulani. I’ve booked both of you into the Burj Al-Arab Hotel for two nights, May 26–28. They’ll meet you for breakfast on May 27 in your suite. Sweep the suite before the meeting. They’ll advise you two hours before dinner that evening on the location of the meeting.” He pointed his finger directly at Faisal.

  “Of course, Father.”

  “You’ll make a proposal to purchase one tactical nuclear warhead with at least an eight-kiloton yield for fifteen million Swiss francs, and not a franc over that price. If they agree we’ll work with them on preparing the container shipment from Karachi to Jakarta. One of the key factors to discuss is adequate shielding of the warhead so no radi- ation signature can be discovered at either departure or arrival ports,” Khalid said.

  “When can they deliver the nuclear warhead container to a secure facility and ready for shipment?” asked Abdullah.

  Khalid glanced out the window and then turned back and faced Abdullah. “We need the nuke shipped from Karachi, the first week of December. Once the container arrives at our secure warehouse in Jakarta we’ll unload the nuke, and load it into another container

  filled with furniture. The departure date from Jakarta will be set for the first or second week in January for its final destination: Port of Los Angeles.”

  They smiled and raised their voices. “Allahu Akbar!”

  The Agency case officer powered the Hummingbird drone back to the parked van.

  “One major factor is to determine what Indonesian product or products we ship inside the container and to cover the nuclear warhead. It could be rubber, coffee, tea or furniture. We have big plans for the Red Sea Brotherhood,” Khalid said.

  They smiled, and chorused, “Allahu Akbar.”

  32

  n a luxurious penthouse condominium near Kilchberg, overlooking Lake Zurich, Otto Steiner, a bald, middle-aged Swiss banker, dressed in a custom-tailored three-piece suit and

  wearing horn rim glasses, was seated at the head of the mahogany conference table in a large room, smoking his Cuban Churchill cigar.

  Khalid, Beltermann, Ziad, Abdullah, Sergei Ryzhkov, and Oleg Kupchenko sat down around the conference table. Ryzhkov, a slender man in his mid-fifties, with a military bearing, gray hair and mustache, and deep-set blue eyes, and Kupchenko, a short, muscular man in his forties, were there to get the best deal for their nefarious agenda.

  “
We will need four suitcase nukes, each containing three kilo- grams of fissionable Plutonium and highly enriched Uranium. What size and weight do you recommend?” Khalid asked, looking directly at Ryzhkov.

  “We can provide a standard, hard-shell suitcase, roughly twenty- four inches by sixteen-inches by eight-inches. It weighs about fifty- five-pounds,” said Sergei.

  Khalid stared into Sergei’s eyes, “What about the explosive yield?” “At least one kiloton.”

  “Good. I also need sixteen-hundred-pounds of C-4 explosives, like before.”

  “When do you need them?”

  “It has to arrive at the Port of Houston no later than August twenty-eighth,” said Khalid. “Is that possible?”

  Ryzhkov laughed and shook his head, “Maybe.” “Can you?”

  He turned to Kupchenko and in Russian asked, “Do you think we can get thenukes outof Russiaby theendof July andshippedfrom Europe in time to arrive and be cleared at the port by August twenty-eight?”

  “Probably, but it won’t be easy,” Kupchenko said as he nodded his head.

  Khalid slammed his fist on the desk. “Well, what is it yes or no?” “Please wire transfer twenty two million dollars to my numbered

  account in my Geneva bank, and give me eight million in cash tomor- row,” Sergei said.

  “Not so fast! Twelve million wired and three million in cash tomorrow. After it arrives and passes through customs, we’ll wire you seven million dollars. You’ll get the remaining eight million after you set the clock timers.”

 

‹ Prev