The Repairman- The Complete Box Set

by L. J. Martin

  He gets a collective nod and they all leave.

  My packet arrives by courier while Connie is at WIS, putting her hacking skills to work.

  There’s a beautiful color brochure with our itinerary: Day 1 and 2, Greenwich, England; Day 3, Honfleur, France; Day 4, Saint Malo, France; Day 5, day at sea; Day 6 and 7, Bordeaux, France; Day 8, Bilbao, Spain; Day 9, day at sea; Day 10 and 11, Lisbon, Portugal; Day 13, Malaga, Spain; Day 14, day at sea; Day 15 we awake in Barcelona, Spain. Then we fly to Cannes, France for the Cannes Film Festival that begins on May 14 and extends through the 25th.

  Tough life, but someone must do it. I’m sure I’ll be sick of seeing beautiful women in bikinis on board ship, then of them wearing the latest fashions in Cannes, which if I remember from seeing pictures of the festival, the latest fashion is mostly well tanned skin. All I can say is it’s a good thing I’m more attracted to Connie Nordstrom than I’ve ever been to any woman. Otherwise a fella might hurt himself on a trip like this.

  But I must remember it’s a work trip, so Connie is the one who’ll do most of the vacationing.

  I do not like the fact I won’t meet Simone ‘Sally’ Meyer until we arrive at London’s Heathrow Airport, as I’m sure I’ll need to coach her as to helping me help her stay out of trouble. If she’s the normal twenty-five-year-old who’s only been exposed to Hollywood muscle-fuck bodyguards who are mostly see-how-tough-I-look and are probably light in their loafers, she’ll need some education…and, more than likely, will have no interest in getting same. I’m sure she’s smarter than anyone in the room or on the ship, in this instance. Or at least thinks she is.

  As well as our flight and cruise tickets, the packet contains detailed maps of the airports—London, Barcelona, Cannes—maps of each city; emergency phone and email addresses for the police and hospitals for each city; contact info for Mort Meyer and his attorneys in Hollywood, New York, and London; and, to my surprise, some spare medicines. For the first time, I learn my charge is a diabetic. I’m instructed that it’s Gretchen Sorensen’s job to make sure Simone is properly medicated and has her insulin, but I’m sure we’ll all get the blame if someone screws up. So, I’m glad I was advised. I can study up on the subject a bit.

  Connie calls just before lunch to tell me she’s eating in the office with the kids and working on into the afternoon. I’m glad, as I’ve got a week’s work to do and only three days to accomplish same. I’ve got to study the layout of the ship, its systems, the schedule, our transportation arrangements for each shore excursion, which I’m changing as they are depending upon ship-arranged transportation. I’ll reschedule with private cars. The hell of it is, I see the girls have booked every excursion, even if three or more of them are scheduled at the same time. As money is no object, I guess they want to make up their mind when the time comes. That means my work is triple or more. Thank you very much, ladies.

  I can only begin to imagine what a clusterfuck I’ve gotten myself into. The good news is, Connie thinks it’s the hot tamale, or the cat’s meow, or whatever the current ‘oh boy’ term is.

  In addition to my normal equipment, I decide—since cell phones don’t work at sea—that I need another toy and call a buddy who has a medical supply company and who I know has personal alarm gear. He has a wireless system that will work either WIFI dependent or via radio wave up to five hundred feet—the Blue Pearl is six hundred ten feet long so we’re close. Simone pushes a button on a matchbook-size transmitter, I get a squeal. I buy three transmitters and one receiver. Mine fits my wrist like an Apple watch and will remain with me except for the shower. Simone, her friend and travelling companion Patty, and her lady-in-waiting Gretchen will each receive a transmitter. The latter two in case Simone is incapacitated. My job is to not let the subject out of my sight, but I won’t be in the same cabin with her or accompany her into the ladies’ room.

  I also will carry a satellite phone, into which I program all the phone numbers Mort has provided, and a few of my own.

  No matter who you ship goods with internationally these days, your packages are subjected to x-ray and explosive sniffers—particularly since Al Qaeda operatives in Yemen tried to ship a pair of computer printers with their large ink cartridges loaded with TATP, triacetone triperoxide. Either cartridge would have blown a 767 jetliner in half. One of those was loaded onto a FedEx cargo plane, one on a Qatar passenger liner. Luckily, due to a tip, both were discovered but not until after being missed by police and company inspectors.

  I hope my shipment is missed and I’ll do all I can to make it so.

  7

  So, I have a big challenge—shipping my munitions.

  I have some wooden crates I’ve used before, one marked with International Harvester and one with John Deere embossed logos. When disassembled, my fully auto KRISS Vector 9mm machine pistol and my two fully auto Glock 19’s will fit nicely and disappear among twelve-inch gear wheels and engine parts. Gear wheels with teeth nicely shield firearm components, and loaded magazines taped together with steel tape look like heavy-duty brake linings to match bills of lading. I’ll repack them in my personal hard-sided bags, among my computer and camera gear and toiletries, before boarding the ship. Shipboard inspectors are busy greeting new arrivals and not nearly as due-diligent as international shippers. I have to hustle to my mini-storage and retrieve my weapons from safes. I maintain mini-storage units in Vegas; Ventura, California; Sheridan, Wyoming—my place of birth—and Salt Lake City, Utah. One never knows when one won’t be able to return to any given location. It’s happened to me more than once. While I’m there I look my gear over. For some reason, I’m compelled to pick up a small pair of night vision goggles. What the hell, they don’t take up much room.

  Connie carries a Ruger .380, mace canisters disguised as hair spray and perfume, and a stun gun fitted out as a make-up compact. While employed there, the CIA fitted her out in high style. While she’s powdering her nose, she can bloody yours from shock and knock you colder than a frozen flounder with a half-million volts deftly applied to your belly button.

  I have to chuckle when I pull out my good Armani suit and a Saville row black sport coat and matching slacks, as well as a gray pair, and realize I haven’t worn them, or my shiny black Cole Hahn tassel loafers, in a month of Sundays. They’re covered with dust and I hope not moth eaten. I hustle them and white and blue dress shirts to the cleaners for an overnight.

  My general attire is jeans, pullovers, and either hiking boots or running shoes, but I’ve been informed in the packet that I’ll likely be attending a couple or more black-tie affairs. Black suit will have to do. Besides, I’m not the belle of the ball, but rather my job is to remain unobtrusive and stay observant in the background. My attire should be of little concern.

  We leave for London the day after tomorrow, and my crates go out tonight to be picked up by a contact of Connie’s in London, Carlos somebody, who we’ll meet for lunch the day before boarding, to collect and repack our gear.

  Hell, as soon as I pick up my clean duds, I’m ready to rock and roll.

  Connie had a pizza for lunch with the kids from WIS, so I don’t get her company, and this is Pax’s poker night with a bunch of hot shot computer nerds with whom I have little in common, so it’s Ji Su, Pax’s squeeze, who is a former Navy helicopter pilot, Connie and me for sushi.

  Ji Su put us in country and handled the ex-ville from North Korea on our last big gig. She’s now doing a temp job flying sightseeing types over the Grand Canyon. CO-Star EC-130’s she can fly in her sleep after the wicked bird she flew to get us in and out of country. It’s currently not a bad gig as the Navajo don’t shoot at you, although the counter-rotating spots to sit down if in trouble are few and far between.

  The lady has a bobbed haircut, raven-wing-black hair, of course, with ebony eyes that sweep the room like she’s watching for incoming MIGs. Perfect teeth, a sincere smile, and absolutely perfect unblemished skin, with lips red enough that no paint is required. She’s tall and thin, fo
r a babe with Korean ethnicity, but has bulges in all the right places. I’m wondering about my buddy Pax as I am about myself. We both seem to not want to be out of sight of these ladies.

  As soon as our food comes, Connie launches into how tough it was to develop background on the passengers and crew of the Crimson Cruise Line ship, Blue Pearl. She informs me there is a full load of three hundred sixty passengers and a crew of three hundred plus. And the crew represents a huge variety of countries. Indonesians, Chinese, Nigerians, Irish, Scots, Algerians, Libyans, Brazilians, Iraqis, and more. Even a few Americans, including the head chef, a photographer and videographer, and a crew chief in the engine room.

  The only commonality she could discern among them was the ability to speak English.

  Something niggles at me as there are a lot of Muslim Arabic names, and most of my dealings with Muslims have been unpleasant. But I laugh it off as being paranoid. How dangerous can waiters, bartenders and room stewards be?

  The Swahili Tea Room in Tower Hamlets, East London, is more crowded than the last visit when Mumin arrives early and opens his laptop. Using Snapchat, he contacts Amir Al-Karim, his contact in Algeria—both he and Al-Karim are under the control of Sheik Ali Hassan—and verifies that the mission is still a ‘go’ and that the small cargo vessel belonging to Amir, barely a ship at one hundred two feet, is loaded and ready for departure. Halfway between Malaga and Cadiz, inside the Straits of Gibraltar, near where they will rendezvous, is the course to be taken. Mumin quickly closes his computer when he is satisfied. Abdul has arrived, a few minutes early, then right on time, Mohamid strides in with the confidence and arrogance many Americans demonstrate with almost every motion.

  As soon as they’re seated and served tea and kanafeh, the sweet cheese dessert favored by many middle easterners, Mumin asks for the phones he’s given them.

  “Why?” Abdul asks, a little offended.

  “I must program in another number and want to make sure it is done correctly.”

  Both hand the phones over and Mumin enters the number of a second pay-as-you-go he’s acquired but then also checks recent calls.

  He reddens slightly when he sees that Mohamid has made an outgoing call and mentally notes the number. He returns the phones, then excuses himself to the restroom and enters the number Mohamid has called in his own throwaway.

  Deep down, even as much as the American jihadist has proven himself, Mumin doesn’t trust him—after all, he’s American. Before he confronts him with the affront of using the cell phone, he will determine who owns the number called, if possible. That will determine if Mohamid needs to be killed and the mission called off as it’s been compromised.

  Mumin’s very angry but doesn’t show it as he returns. Rather than go into more detail, he makes small talk, concealing his anger, and they agree to meet same time same place tomorrow. The day before they are to report to the Blue Pearl.

  It’s very likely Mohamid will not be among them.

  As soon as they part, Mumin punches in the number Mohamid called.

  He’s is pleased it’s not MI5, SO15, or the CIA that answers, but rather a man he’s worked with many times, a devoted subject of Allah and Mohammad, Abu Mansoor Mukta.

  He greets him, “As-salām 'alaykum."

  “It is your old friend. May Allah be with you.”

  “Ah—” Mukta starts to respond.

  “No names please. You are a friend of a friend who called you yesterday?”

  “I am?”

  “He was using a non-traceable phone, so do not worry. And you discussed?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “He is part of Allah’s larger plan. I need to know he’s among the faithful.”

  “I have no reason to think not.”

  “The task begins tomorrow, so it’s imperative I know he’s a true disciple.”

  “I have no reason to doubt.”

  “Thank you, old friend. You are among the blessings from Allah.”

  “Inshallah, God willing,” he says.

  They break the connection, and Mumin pauses for a moment. He is almost sorry he has no reason to kill Mohamid, the American. But he is sure he’ll give him the most dangerous tasks in the coming operation. If Allah calls him to paradise, so be it.

  8

  Frazier has just walked out of a meeting with three of his team, one of whom has been working closely with NSA. The only viable leads they have are the fact two cruise ships carrying primarily Americans are leaving Greenwich, England. One, the Blue Pearl, tomorrow with a few over three hundred Americans and fifty or sixty from scattered other countries, totaling three hundred sixty plus passengers, and one the following day with nine hundred Americans and nearly two thousand from other countries, mostly the U.K.

  In addition, ships are leaving Amsterdam, Holland, and Stockholm, Sweden, day after tomorrow—all heavy with Americans. Any of those ports could be easily reached from London in a short time. So, they are no closer to pinning down the target than they were two days ago.

  As he studies the itineraries of the five ships, his desk phone rings, and he immediately recognizes Harry Weinstein’s voice, calling from the LEGAT office in London.

  “Frazier, we’re on with Nigel Watterson.”

  “Good afternoon, Mister Watterson. I guess it’s actually good evening there.”

  “We’ve had another call to Mukta, but it, too, is from a pay-as-you-go,” Nigel reports in his officious manner. It did confirm the cruise ship in question is leaving, or loading, tomorrow.”

  “I just had the call laid on my desk from NSA,” Frazier adds. “No trace there either, except the same tower in East London.”

  “We are picking Mukta up before dawn and will sweat him, but the bugger has been under hot torches before. I’d give a hundred quid if they’d let me use the cables from my boot on him.”

  “Jumper cables?”

  “As you rebels call them. But no, we’re far too hospitable to the bloody wogs.”

  Frazier laughs. “And you’re obviously not in your office?”

  “I’m in yours, so speaking frankly.”

  “Read me in, if you’d be so kind, when you know anything—or even if you don’t.”

  “Jolly good,” Nigel says. “In fact, Harry can sit in on the indoctrination if it suits you.”

  “Harry, please do,” Frazier requests.

  “My pleasure. I wish we had Mukta in Guantanamo. I’d fry his huevos. Come to think of it, I can’t sit in. I’ve got a lead on a tearoom in the London Borough of Tower Hamlets. I’ve had a waiter there on the pad for nearly a year. He thinks he may have something. I was about to give him the boot, but it’s worth wasting a pound on some of their lousy slop tea. Besides, we’re on a short leash and likely better dividing resources.”

  “Huevos?” Nigel asks.

  “Nuts, but the literal translation is eggs.”

  Nigel chuckles. “That’s a bloody good picture, your jumper cables on his bollocks. I’ll bring you up to speed by noon our time tomorrow.”

  And they break the connection.

  Pax is not taking the nerd's money with Texas hold ’em tonight, and I want to keep working and talk him into staying in so he and Ji Su, Connie and I, can keep digging into the passenger and crew information. I do have to promise to go to In-N-Out Burger and bring back a load of burgers, fries, and shakes, even though it’s a fair haul over to Sahara and normally a thirty-minute waiting line to get served. What I won’t do for a buddy? Besides their shakes are manna from heaven. So, I moan a lot, particularly when Connie says she’d better keep working and not go with me, but I don’t really mean the moan other than the fact I won’t have her company for the hour it will take me to get there and back.

  Luckily, the Cruise line has fingerprints as part of each crew member’s employment file, and Connie has a friend at the CIA who has agreed to run a dozen or so sets through IAFIS, the FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification Service. It’s a big favor to ask, but she
says this gal owes her big time.

  Needless to say I select a dozen with Muslim names to take advantage of the offer. Connie says she’ll have answers by the time I return from my burger run, and she’s a woman of her word.

  As I’m gnawing the last bite of my animal-style In-N-Out, I’m fascinated by the only report returned that has shown up in the extensive FBI files. The employee name is Mohamid Ahmed, but his prints say he’s Sean McCord, an Ohio lad who left the country after following his mother’s Muslim faith. It’s not abnormal for a Muslim convert to change his name and can cite Mohammed Ali as an example. So that alone certainly does not a terrorist make. Still, it’s nice to have some background on at least one of the crew members, and he’ll be worth special notice. I’ll make it a point to identify him when on board.

  We work until after midnight and, as we have a 10:00 a.m. departure on British Airways to Gatwick Airport, London, that means a 7:30 a.m. appearance at the counter.

  Connie’s mace and compact stun gun are packed in her checked luggage, and my only weapons are my hands, feet, elbows, knees and teeth, except for a tricky little faux ballpoint ink pen that shoots a stream of some concoction that will knock a big man on his butt and likely unconscious. Like Connie’s toys, the pen was a gift from the CIA before my last op.

  As much as I’d normally have another kind of sleeping pill on my mind, I don’t mind a bit when Connie suggests, with a big yawn, that we cuddle ourselves to sleep.

  9