by Barry Becker
“Thank you, Herr Scharz.”
General Intelligence Department, Riyadh
Colonel Mustapha looked at the facial recognition database terminal. After inputting a photo of the dentist into the computer, he pressed Enter. Scrolling through thousands of pictures yielded no match. He inputted Ziad Al-Kabbani’s photo, and nothing showed up either. He shook his head in frustration, walked over to the classified archives section, and approached two GID (General Intelligence Department) guards.
After producing his smartcard he placed one of his fingers on the scanner for positive ID recognition A few seconds later, the system granted him access. The GID guard approached.
“Do you have authorization Colonel?” the guard asked.
“Yes.” Colonel Mustapha produced the necessary paperwork, and the guard left him alone. He entered the room and glanced at another facial recognition database terminal. He began scrolling through hundreds of pictures. Finally, a match appeared of the dentist.
Profile: Fouad Al-Kharusi, born February 10, 1953, Al-Khobar, Saudi Arabia. Dental degree: King Saud University, Riyadh, 1980; Saudi National Guard, 1980–2002; and retired with the rank of colonel. In private practice, Jeddah, 2002–present.
The Colonel tried Ziad Kabbani’s photo. After ten minutes of the scrolling the database, his face appeared with the name Zamil Al- Rasheed. An asterisk appeared next to the name – contact General Al-Jabr if there are any questions. The colonel left the Saudi GID and immediately made a call from his secure smartphone.
“Hello,” Khalid answered.
“The dentist operates in the shadows, and I believe he assists deep cover intel officers.”
“What about Ziad?”
“He’s a spy who reports directly to General Al-Jabr.” “Shit! I’ll personally kill that traitor!” Khalid yelled.
Al-Bustani Group of Companies
Ericksen and Ziad approached the main entrance to the headquar- ters building. Ericksen looked like a Saudi, dressed in a typical Saudi robe. Beneath his dishdasha, he wore combat boots. The security guards recognized Ziad but nonetheless asked for his ID.
Ericksen showed them his phony passport and a badge from one of Al-Bustani’s companies, verifying his employee status. The wall clock read 1730 hours.
They were waved through the lobby and continued to walk by a row of elevators before they reached the security department’s facility door. They knocked on the door with a security camera overhead and heard a voice coming from the security officer behind the door. “One moment, Ziad.”
The security officer pressed a button, the door opened, and a bank of video camera security was in full view. He and Ziad walked in and within two seconds zapped two of the security guards with Tasers. While they were immobilized and on the floor in shock, Ericksen injected the officers with a sedative. They proceeded to cut off the power on the video security cameras focused on Khalid’s office.
After entering Al-Bustani’s office, Ericksen slid the photograph of Falcon Dancer to the left, exposing the wall safe. “We only have twenty minutes to get in and out,” Ziad said. He put on the latex glove, placed it over the biometric optical scanner, gently lining up his right index finger to the scanner. He pressed Enter, and the safe opened up. He removed three USB flash drives.
Faisal walked from his dining room to his study. He placed some reports on his desk and sat down by his computer and started his log- on. His phone rang. He picked up his secure landline phone. “The colonel just confirmed Ziad is a traitor! It’s a long story. His real name is Zamil Al-Rasheed, from the Ha’il area,” Khalid said. “Find him and bring him to The Dolphin Prince. I’ll meet you at the marina in four hours.”
“Yes, Father.”
Faisal’s face tensed up as his eyes fixed on empty chairs in the security department facility. He glanced around the room and noticed two security officers unconscious on the floor. The drive from
his condo to the headquarters took no more ten minutes. He lifted the phone and made a call.
Ericksen and Ziad went over to Khalid’s computer and powered it up. “Let me send the Red Sea Brotherhood members’ flash drive first,” Ziad said.
“Okay.” He placed his USB drive into the USB port. A prompt symbol asked for a passcode. Ziad keyed in Khalid and pressed Enter. Nothing happened.
“This isn’t any ordinary USB flash drive. It’s a Fortress Keyguard.
You get four attempts at the passcode,” Ericksen said.
Ziad tried two more: redseabrotherhood and dolphinprince.
Again and again, nothing happened.
“We have one last attempt. What does Khalid value the most?” “Jihad, Islam, power, wealth.” Ericksen looked up at the photo-
graph of the horse, turned around the office, to the windows, and back to the horse. “The ring. Try falcondancer.”
Ziad keyed in falcondancer and pressed Enter. “Amazing!” He placed the E06 CD into the laptop computer’s drive and pressed Enter.
The CD enabled Ziad and Ericksen to send their emails in an encrypted format without being compromised. The encrypted soft- ware sent the emails to an overseas server and then changed I.P. addresses every second. After the messages had been sent, the soft- ware deleted the emails, making them virtually impossible to recover. On Khalid’s computer monitor, the flash drive’s files began appearing in Arabic and listed The Red Sea Brotherhood members and friends. He scrolled down the extensive list - a few thousand names. He immediately removed the original flash drive, then placed his USB flash drive into the port, made a copy and downloaded the entire file. He then keyed in: swordsman88 @ swisstelecom.ch and his email address: ZAR39 @ arab.net.sa. “Swordsman, here’s the info in the attachment. ZAR.” Ziad removed the flash drive from the USB
port.
Three security officers arrived in the security room. They re-acti- vated the video cameras. They spotted Ziad and an Arab talking in Khalid’s office. They called Faisal, and when he received the news, he
gave an order: “Get someone up on the balcony of Khalid’s office. Now!”
Ziad recognized the cameras were re-activated. He aimed and shot out the three cameras.
Ericksen placed his flash drive labeled USA plan in Arabic into the USB port. A minute later, the entire USA attack plans for Las Vegas and Houston popped up in Arabic. He scrolled down as Ziad interpreted the key elements of the file to him. “It lists the names of sleeper cell operatives in each city, storage areas, safe house locations, targets, plan, and the date of the attacks. Khalid must have moved up the date. It’s now Monday, September 7,” Ziad said.
“Shit.”
Three security men jumped onto the balcony with their guns drawn.
“Did you hear that?”
Ziad opened the shutters covering the bullet-proof windows and saw three men on the balcony. He closed them. “Mark, hurry, we don’t have time.”
Ericksen placed his flash drive into the USB port and began downloading the files. He put the last flash drive into the USB port. This one detailed the plans for the nuclear warhead to be loaded in Karachi on a container ship, destined for the Port of Los Angeles. After Ericksen had made copies, they walked back to the wall safe, placed all three flash drives back, closed the safe, and slid back the photograph of Falcon Dancer.
Ericksen inserted both USB flash drives into hidden compart- ments of his combat boots. Ziad ran over to an indoor plant and hid his copy under the plant, ran back to the computer, removed the E06 CD, broke it into many pieces and dumped the pieces under the rug.
Faisal and four security guards were outside Khalid’s office with their guns and AK-47s drawn. “It’s no use,” Ericksen said. They placed their guns on Khalid’s desk and opened the door. “Put your hands behind your back,” Faisal yelled. At that moment his security guards placed plastic flex cuffs on both of them.
They were shoved into a Honda van, followed by two SUVs filled with armed guards. Faisal’s armored Hummer led the way. Two
Agency men followed them at a safe distance. Twenty minutes later, Faisal and his team arrived at the Jeddah Marina with Ziad and Ericksen and pushed by the guards up the ramp of The Dolphin Prince. One of the CIA officers made a call.
Three hours later, Sullivan led a teleconference meeting in the Situa- tion Room. Seated around the table were President Porterfield, his national security advisor, the Secretary of Defense, and staff. On the screen, in General Al-Jabr’s office, were the Saudi Minister of Defense, a Saudi Naval Admiral, and staff. Listening in via satellite communications were the USSOCOM commander, an American Naval Sub Commander, Centcom Commander, and a SEAL Team- Six commander, based on an aircraft carrier in the Arabian Sea.
“We have an American sub in the Red Sea. It’s about five hours from Jeddah. We need to rescue Ziad and Ericksen. We don’t have much time. Can you launch an air assault on The Dolphin Prince?”
“Director Sullivan, we’ll plan every contingency and coordinate with you and your naval assets in the area.”
“Director Sullivan, General Al-Jabr, let me and the Saudi Minister of Defense develop a plan for both an air and surface assault to board the vessel as soon as you conclude the conference,” said the Commander of the United States Special Operations Command.
Sullivan looked around the conference table and nodded his head to all principals seated. “Thanks, Admiral, and thanks to you, your highness and General Al-Jabr, for arranging this meeting.”
Banque Matthias Reiter
Scharz and Jacobson went down the hall on Wednesday evening to the conference room. They looked at the stained glass painting of Bellagio, then left and went next door to a small utility room marked Bank Research Group Salle de securité. The door had a cipher lock on
it. Jacobson took out his drill and broke the cipher lock. They opened the security room and observed two large metal file cabinets, a book- case, and against what appeared to be a tiny two-way mirror sepa- rating the utility room from the conference room. There was a 35 SLR digital camera mounted on a tripod and focused on a 2” X 4” area within the stained glass painting. This confirmed their suspicions; the camera setup took pictures of new clients.
Jacobson picked the lock of the first metal file cabinet and opened it. He found one flash drive with a label on it with the word CH/BMR/Accounts.
He uploaded the flash drive into his laptop computer, and the prompt asked for the password for www.BMR.CH. He took out a piece of paper for the passcode: Grindelwald1890 and pressed Enter. Once they arrived at the site, they searched for management person- nel. Scharz clicked on Jurgen Reiter’s name, and a password prompt appeared. They entered Matterhorn55JR. A list of 250 private numbered accounts came up. He scrolled down until he came to BMR0534986JR/1 and entered Ericksen’s passcode: VikingMercerIs- landDK. In fifteen seconds his bank records appeared. It showed dates of deposit and amounts in Swiss francs. A letter symbol appeared next to the each entry: IP (in person), T (by phone) and WT (wire transfer). To the right, an entry of Mark Ericksen/F#244. Scharz clicked and up came a picture of Mark Ericksen, his private numbered account, passcode, and monthly activity. Apparently, the software had built-in redundancy.
They clicked on another folder under Jurgen Reiter’s personal
file: My Pictures and scrolled through several photos of the account holders. Each file showed the private numbered account, passcode, monthly activity, and the name of the individual or company name.
Scharz thought the other cabinet in the room stored identical records to the flash drive. The tech specialist picked the steel cabinet lock. After five minutes they located the client file folders in the second drawer. The file listed all 250 of Reiter’s clients, names, photos, and activities. The flash drive had all of the same information on it. Reiter’s cautious management style required an extra layer of security, which the backup delivered.
They couldn’t take a chance of security making another round on the floor. The tech specialist installed another cipher lock with the exact code on the utility room door. On the road back to Bern, Jacobson took a deep breath in. He thought they had sufficient evidence to prosecute the bastards.
61
halid entered his office at 2100 hours. He slid the photograph of Falcon Dancer to the side, opened the wall safe, removed four passports, three USB flash drives, five
hundred thousand dollars in wrapped hundred dollar bills, and credit cards. His secure landline phone rang.
“Hello.”
“This is Steiner. Herr Scharz told me you transferred thirty million Swiss francs from your numbered account this afternoon to a numbered account at Banque Matthias Reiter. Is this correct?”
“What!”
“Herr Scharz said he received the call from you and you requested a wire transfer to account number BMR 0534986JR/1.”
Khalid picked up a paperweight and threw it against the wall. “I never called Scharz!”
“Someone must have recorded your voice and knew your account number.”
“It’s Ziad. He’s a Saudi spy.” Khalid wiped his brow and clenched his teeth. “Immediately transfer to the following private numbered accounts in US currency: twenty million into Faisal’s account, eight
million into Ignacio Martinez’s account, and two million into Vance Bullock’s account at Waldmann and Tessier Bank, Grand Cayman Islands; thirty million into Faisal’s account at Waldmann and Tessier Bank, the Bahamas; and ten million into Abdullah’s account at Wald- mann and Tessier Banque, Luxembourg.”
“Yes, Khalid. It will be done immediately.”
The captain greeted Khalid, who boarded The Dolphin Prince along with Moritz. Khalid wore the traditional Saudi robe and around his waist he carried an ivory-handled Jambiya knife resting in its sheath.
“Set sail for Yanbu,” directed Khalid.
“Yes, Sheikh.” Khalid’s men disengaged the ramp at 2200 hours, and The Dolphin Prince departed from the marina with a crew of twenty and ten terrorist operatives from the Red Sea Brotherhood.
The ship traveled twenty-three miles northwest of Jeddah. Khalid and Moritz entered one of the guest staterooms where three body- guards held Ericksen and Ziad. Their faces, bruised and bloody, showed the effects of a severe beating. They were stripped naked, seated on two chairs with their hands tied behind them.
“Stand them up!” shouted Khalid. He stared into Ziad’s eyes. “You were one of my most trusted men. You betrayed me,” said Khalid in Arabic.
“No, Khalid, you betrayed your country and Islam. Hell awaits you.”
With the speed of a magician’s hands in motion, Khalid pulled his sharp, steel, curved Jambiya knife from its sheath and plunged it into Ziad’s chest. He groaned in agony, blood spurting out, losing consciousness as he hit the floor. He gasped for air. Khalid bent over Ziad’s body, twisted the knife for good measure, and pulled it out. “Throw this piece of shit overboard,” he said. He shifted his glance toward Ericksen. “You almost ruined my plans but it is too late, America will feel real pain soon.”
“Go-to-hell!”
Before Khalid could respond, Ericksen kicked him hard in the knee. Khalid grimaced in pain. Two guards tightened their grip on
Ericksen. Khalid landed a hard right hand to his jaw followed by a left hook to his mouth, dropping him to the floor of the cabin.
The captain entered the cabin. “Colonel Mustapha has been arrested.”
Khalid appeared startled. “Tie him to the chair.” He looked at Ericksen. “I’ll be back for you shortly.”
“Go to hell!” Ericksen thought This is it. Hopefully, they’ll make it swift.
The US Navy Sub, USS Cunningham, followed two miles behind The Dolphin Prince. An American drone buzzed over the mega-yacht at an altitude of 10,000 feet, twenty-five miles northwest of Jeddah. Complete blackness covered the night sky except for the stars.
The Agency received specs from the builder of The Dolphin Prince. The German company recommended a maximum of fourteen passengers and a crew of twenty. The ship had
seven staterooms which included the owner’s suite, located on the main deck toward the bow. Five staterooms and the Captain’s quarters resided on the upper deck. A helicopter landing took up a portion of the sun deck. The 280-foot vessel could reach speeds up to twenty-three knots per hour but was designed to cruise at eighteen knots per hour. A secu- rity firm had outfitted the ship with modern warfare weaponry.
The Navy captain of the sub looked at the satellite video link shown on the command center monitor and noticed that the thermal imaging cameras from the drone above captured heat patterns from various stateroom locations. “I hope he’s still alive. Can you see any pulsing activity being transmitted from Ericksen’s enhanced RFID implanted micro-chip?” asked the captain. A Navy lieutenant commander observed signals pulsing on one of the monitors.
“Yes.”
The USS Cunningham captain lifted his satellite radio phone. “Hello.”
“This is the Commander of the Saudi Naval Special Forces. We’re set to depart from our base in thirty minutes with four Apache gunships each with a sniper and a CH-46 Sea Knight helicopter carrying joint Saudi navy commandos and your SEAL Team-Six operators.”
“Commander, we’ll be launching our two SEAL boat teams in twenty minutes. We should complete the control of the lower and main decks by the time your helicopter- borne assault team arrives. Good luck.”
One torpedo-shaped SEAL Delivery Vehicle (SDV) powered by lithium polymer battery entered the water with two SEAL Team– Eight operators seated and four SEALs armed with assault silenced rifles and knives.
Ten minutes later, one rubberized, inflatable Zodiac manned by a coxswain who controlled the tiller arm of the outboard engine, cruised toward The Dolphin Prince with a total of six armed SEALs.