The Ericksen Connection

by Barry Becker

  Jannan asked about you, and we told him you would call him soon. I’ll email his phone number and address to you.”

  Ericksen choked up. “Thank you, sir.”

  67

  April 15, 2010

  he palm tree–lined beaches of Copacabana in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, had more than sun-tanned, beautiful, bikini- clad women parading in the soft sandy beaches and luxury

  hotels and resorts. They also had plastic surgeons who earned substantial money reshaping people’s bodies and faces, making them look younger and more beautiful or handsome. They also altered people’s appearance to the point where no one could recognize them again.

  In a medical office building on the Copacabana, a plastic surgeon in his late forties with thinning dark brown hair smiled confidently at his patient, Mr. Ignacio Martinez, a clean-shaven Argentine man, formerly known as Khalid Al-Bustani. After two months of recovery time, he appeared for his final visit.

  The surgeon activated the large, 50” flat screen, hi-def TV monitor that showed the before and after results from the surgery. His nose from the rhinoplasty surgery was now shorter and slim- mer, more like the actor George Clooney’s nose. The surgeon showed Khalid the original photo of his facial features before and

  after. The darkened circles and bags under his eyes were resolved with double eyelid surgery, accompanied by a cheek lift which restored the fullness of his cheeks. The surgery made him look younger and more vibrant. When he smiled now, his cosmetic facial transformation enabled his mouth to spread wider, showcasing his new veneers.

  The medical technician, a woman in her early thirties, smiled. “Señor Martinez, you look fabulous.”

  He smiled back and gave her a small present. She opened it up, and her eyes lit up at an emerald necklace. “Thank you very much.” She held it out, looked at it, and gave it to him. ‘Would you please put it around my neck?” They both smiled.

  His new appearance made it virtually impossible for any law enforcement or intelligence agency to identify him. With his new passport and prescription designer eyeglasses on, he strolled down the streets of Rio de Janeiro with the confidence of a successful South American businessman, followed by two tough looking bodyguards.

  For the past seven days, he was staying at the luxurious Miramar Hotel on the beach. He had to address one problem. His two Chechen bodyguards had flown into Rio five days earlier on a contract arranged through layers of anonymous communications techniques. Khalid made an appointment with the surgeon to meet him at his office. He promised him a bonus of an additional fifty thousand dollars.

  The surgeon arrived at the medical office building at nine in the evening and admitted Khalid into his office. No one else appeared to be working at that time. Khalid gave him an envelope with fifty thou- sand dollars in counterfeit money. The surgeon’s eyes widened with excitement and his smile lengthened. “You’re too kind, Señor Martinez.”

  “The cash is a gesture of my appreciation of your fine cosmetic surgery services.” The surgeon turned away for a moment. Khalid took his Makarov handgun from his pants pocket and fired one shot from a distance of eight feet into the back of the surgeon’s head. Blood splattered on the floor and the wall. Khalid changed clothes and placed his clothes in a small duffel bag. He opened the door for

  278BARRY L. BECKER

  the two arsonists. An hour later, fire engulfed the entire six-story medical building.

  May 10, 2010

  Khalid entered the Waldmann and Tessier Bank in Georgetown, Grand Cayman. He wore a business casual outfit. The last time he had personally visited the bank as Ignacio Martinez had been nine or ten years earlier. He approached an executive officer of the bank and produced his private numbered account and the officer escorted him to a private and secure room. Within minutes he completed his trans- actions and walked out of the bank with two million dollars in cash in two briefcases, giving one to Dawkins, who now went by the name of Diego Ramirez. They walked back to the marina and up the gangway to board a one-hundred-fifty-foot yacht called Sweet Juanita.

  Dawkins sat across Khalid in the salon lounge of the yacht, drinking a cognac from a crystal snifter. “Just think, four months ago the US government seized all your assets from your Swiss, the Bahamas, and Grand Cayman accounts, and today you’re sitting with a million dollars in that briefcase. He raised his glass of orange juice in a toast to Dawkins and said, “Cheers.”

  Looking at the briefcase by his sandals, Dawkins said with a smile, “Today my spirits are lifted. What now?”

  “We’re first going to drop you off in Panama so you can open up a private numbered bank account with the million dollars. Then we’ll pick you up in Veracruz the end of June to begin our mission. I’ve sent two operatives to Portland to obtain Ericksen’s home security alarm codes. Once we kill that son-of-a-bitch I’ll wire you two million dollars into your new Panamanian bank account.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” The heavily bearded, dyed-jet-black-haired Dawkins took another swig of cognac and stared at Khalid. “I’ll be frank. I don’t respect your fucking Islamic Jihadist shit. After we kill him, I’m going my fucking way.”

  “Shane, we’re all the same. We’re cold-blooded killers. You

  murder for money; I kill to eliminate the infidels from exploiting our resources and occupying our lands. I need your help. This mission will make you a few million dollars which will go a long way in Brazil.”

  Several days later Dawkins was dropped off in Panama.

  June 28, 2010

  Dawkins waited at the Veracruz, Mexico marina for Khalid to arrive. A few minutes later his yacht docked. “Any news on Ericksen’s codes?” Dawkins asked.

  He turned to Dawkins as they walked to the Mercedes limo at the port. “One of our men works in dispatch at the security alarm company, and the other one drives for a limo company.”

  The taxi driver opened the door for the men and drove them to the Veracruz airport where Vance Bullock greeted them.

  He and his pilot flew them on his private corporate jet, a Cessna Citation, directly to Santa Barbara, California. They landed in the late afternoon at the Santa Barbara Municipal Airport. Bullock provided them new American passports and California driver’s licenses and a condo address listed in Santa Monica.

  “I don’t know what you’re planning, but leave me out of it. I’m taking a huge risk helping you. Here are the keys to my condominium in Sausalito. You can stay for up to two weeks, but afterward, I need you to leave,” said Bullock.

  “Who are you kidding, Vance? You greedy bastard!” He shook his head and stared into Bullock’s eyes, his eyebrows almost touching the bridge of his nose. “The only reason you’re helping me is you need Al-Bustani Construction to continue doing business in the Kingdom. I’ll be back here soon, and you’re going to fly us where I tell you!”

  68

  July 9, 2010

  ricksen stood with two bouquets of roses and waited for Jannan, his fifteen-year-old daughter Farah, and Laila, his brother Bashir’s twelve-year-old daughter whom he had

  adopted a few years earlier. Their flight on Alaska Air Lines left San Jose and landed at 3:15 pm at Portland International Airport.

  Fifteen minutes later Ericksen spotted Jannan Sadozai with a carry-on and duffel bag. Each of the girls walking alongside Jannan carried their small duffel bags and slowly made their way past secu- rity. Standing off to the side near an airport store, Ericksen main- tained his composure and approached Jannan. It was the first time he had seen him since their meeting in Kandahar five years earlier.

  Jannan wore a blue short-sleeved dress shirt, khaki slacks, and brown casual shoes. They looked at each other and Ericksen gave him a big hug. Jannan cried as he received the hug. “I’m so happy to see you and want to personally thank you for helping get our family out of Afghanistan. My wife and I, and all the children, finally feel safe here in the States.”

  Tears continued to flow down Jannan’s cheeks. He lost his compo-

  su
re and took a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped some of the tears away.

  “Welcome to Oregon. I’m overjoyed, finally seeing you here in America.”

  “Thank you. My wife and son couldn’t make this trip, but my wife wanted you to know whenever you’re in the Bay Area she would like to make you a typical Afghan dinner.”

  Jannan stepped aside for a moment and introduced the girls. He motioned with his outstretched arm. “This is my daughter Farah and my youngest daughter Laila.” Ericksen presented each girl with a beautiful bouquet of red roses. The girls were wearing dresses and the hijab, the head covering.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ericksen, “ both girls replied and smiled.

  He looked intently into Laila’s sparkling large coffee-colored eyes. He saw a young girl who had witnessed so much war, trauma, and the loss of her parents and sister. Her olive complexion and sweet smile made him feel happy. “I’ve planned a weekend of activities for all of you. First, we’ll go down to the baggage area and gather your checked luggage.” Everyone nodded.

  Both girls spoke some English and were registered to attend school in the fall in Fremont, California. For now, they would be his guests over the weekend. He planned to take them on a sightseeing trip down the Columbia Gorge to visit Multnomah Falls and make the loop from Hood River to Mt. Hood and enjoy a dinner at the Timberline Lodge.

  On Sunday he invited Jeb Templeton, his wife, and children for a salmon barbecue.

  This was the moment he had been waiting for over eight years, some way to redeem himself for taking an innocent life. He couldn’t bring back Bashir, but he finally felt a sense of happiness in knowing his efforts had saved a good Afghan family from the threat of death and a miserable life for their children. He owed a lot to Bill Sullivan for making his dream a reality. While driving back to his home in West Linn, they talked and laughed about being together as good friends.

  69

  EyeD4 Systems

  caterer brought in all kinds of sandwiches, salads, and a birthday cake into EyeD4 Systems’ lunchroom. Today’s was July 13. The employees enjoyed their lunch and then gath-

  ered around the table where Ericksen blew out the candles. The occasion was his fortieth birthday. The company had grown to fifty employees and anticipated exponential growth over the next five years with the initial success of their biometrics access control systems and the roll-out of their biometrics communications encryp- tion systems.

  After the birthday luncheon party, he went back into his office and sat down with his executives: Jeb Templeton, recently hired as senior VP of marketing and sales, and Sofia Kastrup, the Chief Finan- cial Officer.

  “Jot down August 17 on your calendar. Poul Kastrup is having a corporate meeting at Cyberburst Communications with their board of directors. He asked me to present a conservative three year busi- ness plan. Let’s get together the first week of August and prepare the plan and anticipate the questions they’ll more than likely raise.”

  At four in the afternoon, Ericksen’s executive assistant passed his office and glanced inside. “Here’s a FedEx package addressed to you.” She placed it on his desk.

  “Thank you.”

  He noticed it was shipped from Sandpoint, Idaho. Curiosity got the best of him. He opened the package and discovered an oil paint- ing, twelve inches by eighteen inches of a Swiss mountain landscape, a box of Lindt Swiss Chocolate Hazelnut candy bars, and a birthday card. He opened the card:

  Dear Mark,

  Happy birthday! I’m sorry for ignoring you. I recently received two job offers for an executive recruiter position in the banking industry. One is in San Francisco, and the other is in Lake Oswego, on Meadows Road. Both jobs start around the first week of September. My real name is Kate McDonald. I don’t blame you if you decide never to call or write me. However, I hope you do. You can reach me at 208-555-0029. My current mailing address is 7550 Schweitzer Mountain Drive, Sandpoint, Idaho. You’re in my thoughts, Kate.

  Ericksen’s parents entered his office with Thor, their four-year-old Belgium Malinois. When his parents’ dog Bjorn died, they were devastated. After searching for a rescue dog, an old SEAL buddy of his located Thor in a rescue shelter in California. He hugged his mom and dad and patted Thor on the head. They were leaving for Denmark to visit family and he agreed to take care of Thor for two weeks. “Mark, please don’t be too strict with him. Please give him some hamburgers once in a while. He likes human food better than dog food,” his mother said in Danish.

  “Mor, don’t worry, he’ll be my jogging partner every morning.” Thor looked up at Ericksen and barked.

  His smartphone rang. “Ericksen speaking.”

  “Phantom here. You and Templeton make a great team.”

  “Thanks for your confidence in our company and giving us a strong endorsement to the board of directors of Cyberburst Commu- nications.”

  “I heard from Kate, and I’m glad she finally contacted you. I don’t want to read too much into this, but the fact she is considering a posi-

  tion in Portland tells me there could be a future for both of you. As they say, the ball is in your court. If you ever get bored in the private sector, there will always be a future for you in the CIA.” They both chuckled.

  “On a serious note, we believe Khalid Al-Bustani is alive and somewhere in the United States. Several months ago a plastic surgeon performed surgery on a man claiming to be a citizen of Argentina using the alias of Ignacio Martinez. The surgeon was shot to death, and their medical office building burned to the ground. An eyewitness who worked as a nurse for the surgeon claims to have seen this man wearing a gold ring with an image of a horse’s head and the inscription Falcon Dancer on it.”

  “Don’t tell me that butcher is alive!”

  “The intelligence community went into high gear and verified this same individual, Ignacio Martinez, visited the Waldmann and Tessier Bank in The Grand Caymans and withdrew two million dollars. The bank executive who processed his private numbers account also noticed the gold ring and gave us a good description of this man. We’re not sure where he went from there. But here’s what we do know – that same day two men walked away from the bank with two briefcases and boarded a large yacht. The man accompanying him had a bushy black beard and a striking resemblance to Shane Dawkins. The name of the yacht is Sweet Juanita. It is registered in the Bahamas, and was hired to pick up two men in Rio de Janeiro matching those descriptions.”

  “Sounds ominous.”

  “It could be our worst nightmare. The captain of the boat said he dropped off Dawkins in Panama and Khalid in Veracruz. In checking all modes of transportation, the only plausible one had to be flying out of Veracruz. So far we checked all commercial airline carriers who departed on the 28th, and nothing showed up. I have several agencies looking into all private jets. Both Homeland Security and the FBI are also checking out all leads. I’ll get back to you if some- thing pops up.”

  “Thanks, sir.”

  Dawkins and Khalid boarded the Cessna Citation late morning at the Santa Barbara Municipal Airport and arrived at the Aurora Munic- ipal Airport, Aurora, Oregon, on July 14, at 2:30 pm. They were met by a man who carried their bags and placed them into a van, then drove them to the Lakeshore Inn in downtown Lake Oswego where they checked in. Over the next several days they drove past Ericksen’s home, his office, ClubSport, and otherwise stayed mostly in their rooms. They ate in fast food restaurants and walked to Peet’s Coffee a few blocks away for their morning espresso.

  Century City, Los Angeles

  Three men in suits approached the main office lobby of The Bullock Group. One agent was the Special Agent-in-Charge of the FBI office in Los Angeles, another with the Department of Justice, and the third man, a very tall man in his mid-forties, carried the title of Executive Assistant Director for National Security. They showed their creden- tials and in less than a minute were in the private office of Vance Bullock.

  “What is the occasion for your visit, gentlemen?”
/>
  The FBI man looked directly at Bullock. “Mr. Bullock, you have a serious problem. We talked with your corporate pilot, and he told us that you and he picked up two men at the Veracruz Airport in Mexico on June 28 and flew them to Santa Barbara, California. We have eyewitnesses who will testify to your Cessna Citation’s flights from Mexico. Your pilot told us he flew them to Aurora, Oregon, two days ago.”

  Beads of sweat formed around Bullock’s head.

  “Gentlemen, please be seated. Is there anything wrong with picking up some American friends in Mexico and flying them back to the States?”

  The Justice Department official sat across Bullock and placed his

  hand on the expensive executive desk. “Not if you didn’t violate any federal laws. Mr. Bullock, your pilot, identified one of the men who went by the name of Javier Cortez of Santa Monica, California, and whose previous alias was Ignacio Martinez. The man recently had plastic surgery and wore a large gold ring with a horse’s head and an inscription. The man was reported killed in Saudi Arabia last year. Khalid Al-Bustani is his real name, and he is a wanted fugitive and terrorist mastermind. You’re in hot water! We could charge you with harboring a known fugitive terrorist, providing false American IDs, and allowing your pilot to fly both Al-Bustani and Shane Dawkins to the Portland area.”