The Ericksen Connection

by Barry Becker

  Ryzhkov glanced at everyone sitting around the table and looked at Khalid. “All right, but I want to communicate directly with only one person from your organization.”

  “Wolfgang will be your contact. Do we have an agreement?” “Yes,” the former Russian intelligence colonel said.

  Khalid rose from the table. “We’ll advise you seven days before the actual date of the attack with their locations, so you have adequate time to set the clock timers.” Steiner stood up, placed his table napkin neatly on his place mat and glanced at the party, “Gen- tlemen, I have made lunch reservations for all of us. Khalid, Sergei, and Wolfgang, please come into my private office. Everyone else, please wait in the living room.” He enjoyed being Senior Vice-Presi- dent in charge of wealth management. His area of responsibility for the bank focused on wealthy Arabs from the Gulf Kingdoms.

  RyzhkovgaveBeltermannapieceofpaper that read

  The Ericksen Connection135

  R2bear4@swisscom.ch. “That’s my email address. Send me an email with your cellphone number from an internet café.”

  Beltermann asked, “You must have a code, don’t you?” “Affirmative Wolfgang. Use numbers for the code to replicate the

  alphabet, like 1 is A, 2 is B, etc., and a period is a period and @ is still @.”

  “When the container is on the vessel ready for departure, I’ll provide you with the SED, markings, bill of lading, commercial invoice, and all particulars, along with the arrival date at the Port of Baltimore.”

  Caldwell, dressed in a business casual outfit, and seated in the rear passenger seat of a van parked two hundred feet from the condo, held her digital camera with attached telephoto lens, and took photos of the men leaving the lobby to their chauffeured cars. The driver started the van as Caldwell tapped Jacobson’s shoulder. Jacobson was sitting in the front passenger seat maintaining a watchful eye. “Get these downloaded to Langley.”

  Listed as a senior economics attaché, Jacobson worked out of the US Embassy in Bern. For the past two years, he worked on special assignment for the Department of the Treasury, and on loan from the CIA Counterterrorism Center at Langley.

  On Lake Zurich

  Khalid, Beltermann, and Shane Dawkins stood on the top deck of the DS Stadt Zurich boat cruising Lake Zurich. Standing thirty feet away was Khalid’s personal bodyguard, Oskar Moritz, a former Stasi intel- ligence officer.

  “I heard you’re still at Stealth Dynamics.” “True. However, I’ll be leaving soon.” “How’s Pharaoh doing these days?”

  “I ride Pharaoh whenever I get a chance to visit the stables in Virginia.”

  “Shane did some moonlighting for me a few years ago, and in appreciation, for his efforts, I gave him one of Falcon Dancer’s colts.”

  Beltermann nodded his head. “My Russian intelligence friends are impressed with your unique talents.”

  “Being under the radar is critical in this line of work. I’m sure the SVR (the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service) resorts to the same modus operandi too,” said Dawkins.

  Beltermann nodded. Khalid glanced at Dawkins and turned back to Beltermann. “I’m sure we can use his services in the not-too-distant future.” He handed Dawkins a gift bag from an upscale retail store. “You’ll find a large envelope in there with 10,000 Swiss francs in cash. Think of it as a down payment for future services.”

  “Thank you,” Dawkins said. He shook Khalid’s hand. “You know you can count on me for anything at a moment’s notice.”

  33

  Zurich, Switzerland

  onch and Schneider Private Bank’s headquarters building was established in 1906 on the Bahnhofstrasse in Zurich’s financial district. In Steiner’s office, a well-

  dressed man in his mid-thirties, Hans Christian Scharz, stood with confidence as he handed Ziad his business card.

  “If Herr Steiner is not available, please contact me,” Scharz said.

  Steiner interrupted. “Herr Scharz is one of our best wealth managers, and you can be assured of his dedication to serving both you and Mr. Al-Bustani. As his financial advisor, we’ve set a limit for you to conduct wire transfers of up to ten-million-US-dollars per day.”

  “That should be sufficient, sir. It’s been a pleasure to meet both of you.”

  Scharz escorted Ziad to the elevator, and once in the elevator, rode to the lobby level and exited the bank.

  General Al-Jabr sat comfortably at an inside table and watched people walk past Springli’s café on Paradeplatz. He picked up his espresso from the table. Seated two tables away were his three secu-

  rity detail, dressed in blue jeans and thin jackets. He spotted Ziad as he walked down the street thirty-meters from the café entrance. Something caught his eye, perhaps an inherent survival instinct many intelligence operatives acquire after years of experience in black operations. He took out his secure smartphone and made a call.

  Ziad, walking at a comfortable pace, felt his smartphone vibrate in his pants pocket. He picked up his secure smartphone. “Hello.”

  “You are being followed by a slim, Arab man with a straggly black beard,” Al-Jabr said in Arabic.

  “I bet it is Omar Al-Naimi.”

  “Do the double-back routine, then turn around and head toward the Bahnhof. Walk until you reach the Schweizerhof Hotel at Bahn- hofplatz 7. Do a jog through the lobby to the back entrance by the bar. Look for a white BMW 4-door with license plate number ZU 69737. Meet me in the lion house at the Zurich Zoo.”

  Thirty minutes later, two Saudi security men stood outside the lion house at the zoo. Ziad walked up to General Al-Jabr inside the lion house and greeted him with a kiss on each cheek. A lion roared as the zookeeper threw several pounds of horse meat inside the cage. Several adults and children watched as the lion started biting into the horse meat.

  “It’s good to see you, General.”

  “You’ve been in the shadows too long.” “Yes, I’m afraid you’re right.”

  “We can never be too comfortable in this business,” General Al- Jabr said.

  “Faisal Al-Bustani’s thugs have been tailing me. I suspect they’re also monitoring everyone’s emails and cellphones.”

  “If they are on to you, make a dental appointment with your colleague, and we’ll exfiltrate you at once. Any more details on the plan?”

  “The royal operation won’t be discussed in depth until after the American attacks,” Ziad replied.

  “I don’t understand how an educated and successful Saudi busi- nessman, whose net worth is estimated to be half a billion dollars,

  can plan the overthrow of the government that sustains his lifestyle and business.”

  “Khalid is a paradox. He has a scorched-earth hatred for the infi- dels while enjoying the fruits of wealth and power derived from his business relationships approved by the Kingdom.”

  “Keep me updated on any news on this conspiracy, and stay safe.” “Unfortunately it’s not easy when you’re surrounded by a pack of

  hyenas,” said Ziad.

  “You’ve sacrificed your life for our country, and we will never forget it. Soon, you’ll return to Riyadh, and enter our foreign service. There’s a new assignment which should emerge within the next six months as a commercial attaché in our embassy in Australia.” They both smiled.

  “Remember, my brave warrior, always have the gaze of a lion, and you’ll have no fear of anything,”

  “God willing (inshallah).”

  34

  he next day, Sullivan and his security boarded the Lake Steamer from Lucerne to the port of Alpnachstad, and rode the cog railway to the top of Mt. Pilatus. He entered the

  restaurant and saw the general seated by a table accompanied by his security detail. Sullivan walked over to the table and greeted Al-Jabr with kisses to each cheek. The top of Mt. Pilatus offered fantastic views of Lake Lucerne and the Swiss glaciers. The Agency detail was a few tables away from Sullivan.

  “Just about every week there’s a suicide bomber who detonates him
self, and kills innocent Muslims throughout the Middle East.”

  “I believe our greatest challenge today is stopping the spread of radical Islam. We need to reach out to the hearts and minds of this young generation before it’s too late,” Sullivan said.

  “How do you propose to reform our system when we’re exposed to global news 24/7, focused on Americans killing Arab Muslims and innocent citizens?”

  Sullivan raised his right palm. “Your government has no choice.”

  “Bill, your government’s invasion and occupation of Iraq haven’t helped, especially the CIA’s torture campaign of waterboarding and

  renditions. The worldwide media exposure of torture at Abu Ghraib is a good example.”

  “I agree, you’re right on both of those disasters.” Sullivan’s face tensed up and shook his head. “I disagreed with the administration’s campaign of torture, but several of us at the Agency were overruled.”

  “Bin Laden’s forecast is coming true to form. Your former presi- dent, and now the new president, continue to bleed your treasury while your soldiers lose their lives. For what?”

  “I’m afraid we’ve already burned those bridges.” Sullivan changed the subject. “What have you found out?”

  “Our spy works closely with Abdullah Al-Suhaimy, the Saudi terrorist leader who led the operations in both the Hurghada and Sharm El-Sheikh bombings.”

  “One hour, that’s all I need for that fucking Abdullah to beg me to kill him,” Sullivan said, as he grasped his hands in a choking motion.

  “We want his head,” the general said. “The Red Sea Brotherhood has a mole in your government.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Abdullah received a call from Khalid Al-Bustani on The Dolphin Prince and had been informed of the hotel changes a few days before the attack. The spy’s name is George,” the general said.

  “Believe me; we’ll check it out. What makes a wealthy Saudi busi- nessman become a mastermind terrorist?”

  The waiter appeared with the Bratwurst lunch special and Swiss beer.

  “Khalid apparently was radicalized during the Soviet-Afghan war but kept his intentions under the radar.”

  “I remember him. He owned an Arabian horse breeding business.”

  “He still does.” Al-Jabr picked up his glass of water and took a swig. “They made a deal in Zurich with Russian arms dealers to buy four weapons-grade nuclear suitcase bombs and sixteen-hundred- pounds of C-4.”

  “Any new intel on the cities targeted?” “Las Vegas and Houston.”

  “Please provide me with Khalid’s dossier and all of his communi-

  cations numbers.” Sullivan and his security detail took the cable car down to Lucerne where the limo met them.

  Café in Geneva

  Caldwell sipped some coffee and grabbed the International Herald Tribune. Her secure smartphone rang. She picked it up on the third ring. “Hello.”

  “Phantom speaking,” said Sullivan, using his code name. You’re right. The man is Sergei Ryzhkov, the former KGB, and SVR Colonel.”

  “He’s an expert on nuclear weapons, and we believe still is in contact with the Russian foreign intelligence agency. We’ve identified the other man. He is Oleg Kupchenko, a former colonel in Spetsnaz, with links to organized crime.”

  Caldwell took another sip of her coffee. “Ryzhkov has a private account with Banque Matthias Reiter in Geneva. Dave can provide you with more information on those transactions.”

  “I’ll be going to Bern on Wednesday to meet the Swiss Federal Police Director.”

  Caldwell asked, “Wasn’t he your old tennis partner when you lived in Bern?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, we’ll be playing tennis at his club. We’ll talk again soon.”

  “Goodbye, sir.”

  Jacobson was strolling along a stretch of Lake Zurich when his secure smartphone rang. He stopped and pulled the phone from his pocket, “Hi.”

  “Phantom here. Any new developments on the Russian’s bank account at Banque Matthias Reiter?”

  “Sergei Ryzhkov received two wire transfers from the Monch and

  Schneider bank in Zurich over the past year, totaling eight million dollars. However, yesterday he received a twelve million dollar wire transfer.”

  “We must stop these bastards at all costs.”

  “Sir, I will be in touch with my counterpart tomorrow and get back to you.”

  “I need you to fly to Dubai and hook up with our chief-of-station there on May 26. Book a suite in the Burj Al-Arab Hotel for three days. Faisal Al-Bustani and Abdullah Al-Suhaimy are meeting with Pakistanis who want to sell the Red Sea Brotherhood an eight-kiloton nuclear warhead. We’ll provide more details soon. Take care.”

  The Eiger Tennis Country Club in Bern has one of the best tennis courts in Switzerland. At two in the afternoon, Bruno Muller, a tall, tan, athletic man in his late fifties, and Sullivan finished their last tennis set. Muller beat Sullivan. They walked over to the courtside bar, plopped down, and ordered drinks. Sullivan’s security detail was close by watching him.

  “I can’t believe I beat a former UCLA tennis player.”

  “Bruno, I played baseball, not tennis. But I must say your tennis game has improved.”

  Muller shook his head, “That’s the first time I ever beat you.” “You played like a forty-year-old pro.”

  Muller laughed. “Flattery must come with a steep price. What do you need, Bill?”

  “David Jacobson works for the US Treasury’s Office of Countert- errorism and Financial Intelligence at our embassy in Bern. He’s working with one of your undercover intel case officers, Hans Chris- tian Scharz.”

  “What’s the name of the Swiss bank?” asked Muller.

  “We believe Banque Matthias Reiter provides terrorist and arms financing to major Russian Intelligence operators and organized crime figures.”

  “How can I be of assistance?”

  “I want you to empower Mr. Scharz to run a black ops job for us at their headquarters in Geneva.”

  “On one condition, we agree to review the collected intelligence together to determine if there are any Swiss laws broken.”

  The waiter walked over to their table and served the men their drinks. “Here are your Eichhof Lagers gentlemen,” the waiter said in German.

  Sullivan and Muller raised their beer glasses. “Cheers.”

  “We’re interested in those bankers who deal with terrorists and their illegal financial transactions,” Sullivan said.

  “Our country has a great reputation in safeguarding bank privacy, and we don’t tolerate any terrorist financing, money laundering, or arms dealing.”

  “You didn’t mention tax evasion.”

  “Director Sullivan, your sense of humor hasn’t changed.”

  35

  National Counterterrorism Center

  he American flag flew at half-staff outside the large, well- fortified complex that employed the best security systems money could buy. The NCTC Ops Center employees came

  from many government branches and departments: FBI linguists/translator staffers, NSA, CIA, DIA and other intelligence agencies. They maintained their computer work stations amid an array of flat panel HDTV plasma monitors.

  Campbell, Geiger, and other directors were present. Marwan Haidar, an FBI linguist, and translator wore an NCTC badge and was by his terminal.

  Campbell approached the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve picked up actionable intel over the weekend indicating the Red Sea Brotherhood plans to attack two American cities soon.”

  Haidar felt a sudden surge of pain in his stomach. His forehead began perspiring. Fear racked his mind, almost paralyzing him, freezing his thoughts.

  Later in the evening he entered his Falls Church home, kissed his wife, and rushed into his study. He plumped down into his plush

  chair by his desk. On his wall hung a large painting of an Arab warrior with a raised sword, leading men into battle. He shouted out in Arabic,
“Death to the infidels!” He started his email in English:

  TO: fdancer@swisstelecom.ch FROM: grodriquez@comcast.net

  “Our good friends learned about our exciting plans. We need to find a new singer in our church choir. George.”

  Haidar’s parents had come from Baghdad, Iraq, in 1967, after the Israeli-Arab war. He was born in Detroit in 1968 and followed the Sunni version of the Muslim faith religiously. Every few years he, his siblings and parents traveled to Iraq to visit relatives. Those visits helped shaped his views of Arab life in the Middle East.

  With a degree in political science with honors, a clean record, and fluency in Arabic, he was recruited by the FBI. The American inva- sion of Iraq in 2003 planted the seeds and began to influence his loyalties away from his country, but the torture, humiliation and physical abuse of Muslim prisoners at the hands of Americans at the Abu Ghraib prison cemented his conversion. In 2007, he gained the trust of Khalid Al-Bustani and became a spy for the Red Sea Brotherhood.

  Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

  The Dolphin Prince anchored in the Jeddah Marina. Khalid, Abdullah, Omar, Ziad, Beltermann, and two bodyguards huddled in the salon. Khalid slammed his fist onto the conference table and yelled in Arabic, “Our plans have been discovered. We have a traitor in our group!” Ziad placed his right hand into his pants pocket and pressed a programmed number on his pre-paid, doctored cellphone. A phone rang. After three rings the men began checking their smartphones.

  Ziad reached inside his left pants pocket with his left hand and removed his smartphone.