by L. J. Martin
All of them carry pagers that work off the ship's WIFI, hidden in their clothing. These will call them to the service of Allah.
I’m not unhappy that Simone and crew decided to have a cocktail or two prior to going to supper. Connie, worn out by sightseeing, has asked to beg off and remains in the room. The kids take a table next to a large window in the bar overlooking the city and as I want to always maintain some distance from them, but not more than ten paces, I see three old boys at a table with an empty chair. One of them has a Navy bill cap with U.S.S. Ranger embroidered across the front, and the other two proudly display their military affiliation on bill caps, both former Marines.
“Can I join you, gentlemen?” I ask, and they all wave me down.
We introduce ourselves and I’m proud to be in the company of retired Master Sergeant Elroy Filson, a broad-chested Texan; Master Chief Willard ‘Willy’ Porter, a Black from Alabama who may have missed his calling as a professional tackle for the Rams; and by-God two-star Marine Major General Maurice Tolliver, a survivor of the Lebanese bombing. Tolliver, after being severely wounded by falling masonry, served mostly on the East Coast, supply for Desert Freedom and other ops, and prior to that in both Somalia and Kosovo, and I’m just as pleased we never crossed paths. I have no idea how he’d feel about my General Discharge. All these old boys are at least in their seventies, Major General Tolliver’s probably in his eighties, I’d guess. Interesting thing about the Corps, a Major General must retire five years after attaining the rank unless he’s promoted. This old boy looks like he might be one who pushed back against the system—like I did—which could be a reason he didn’t make Lieutenant General.
They immediately ask me if I served and I report my former ten-year service in Marine Recon without mentioning my General Discharge or the reason, therefore. I’m proud to report my ten years a Marine, my early years serving in Marine Intel, HUMINT or Human Intelligence. I was particularly proud to end my service a Warrant Officer reached at the end of my eighth year, as soon as I possibly could after reaching E-5, sergeant, and—which I don’t mention as we Marines don’t crow—after receiving the Legion of Merit for distinguished service in Somalia. That particular engagement was unknown to American civilians, so I don’t mention it either. I do mention I applied for the appointment in Force Recon and was accepted. I then attended Warrant Officer Basic at Quantico and was given additional leadership and management training—that’s SOP for non-coms. I don’t often get to relate my Marine years, and seldom relate the reason for my General Discharge, known to many as less than honorable—sending an Iraqi general and some of his armed male family members to their paradise. And I’d do it again, as they were stoning to death a couple of young women. I didn’t save them, but I saved my self-respect.
I truly enjoy hearing these old warhorses relate tales of their service—including Tolliver's experiences as a teen at Chosin Reservoir in Korea—and standing them to a round of drinks, which is a joke as all drinks aboard are free. I’m enthralled until the Simone party heads for supper. I excuse myself, follow, and take a table not far from theirs.
Tomorrow is a day at sea on our way to Bordeaux. So, I can sort of relax. With luck, it’ll be a something-cold-by-the-pool day.
With luck, but on this gig, I’ll always be waiting for the other shoe to drop. Nothing is ever merely lollypops and roses.
16
Harry Weinstein is in his London LEGAT office with Nigel Watterson of SOI5, the counterterrorism command of the London Metropolitan Police Service, across the desk, both on the speaker phone with Section Chief Terrorism Frazier Mendleson at Langley headquarters.
“So,” Frazier asks, “the guy talking to Mukta and inferring he was going cruising and may be on his way to his seventy-two virgins, is Yazid Al-Saud.”
“And Yazid Al-Saud’s prints match those of a new employee of the Crimson Cruise line, going by the name of Mumin Amir?”
“That’s it. A very vague threat,” Nigel says.
“It would be unless you’ve read the folder on Al-Saud. He’s Al-Shabaab and MI5 or SO15 would bust him right now except I’d think we’d want him to lead us to his cell members. This guy has enjoyed Pakistan, Iran, Somalia, Libya, and God knows where else. He’s an old hand and is now high on our most-wanted list. Particularly now that we know he’s in the west.”
“Even leave him be,” Frazier says, “at the risk of whatever they’re going to do on the Blue?”
“He’s already on board,” Harry reminds them.
Frazier clears his throat. “Well, Nigel, old man, how about you fellas get someone on board…”
“Bollocks,” Nigel snaps. “She’s out of our waters, she’s an American registry, she has ninety percent American passengers. No way in bloody hell. Besides, James Bond is busy.”
“Okay, and you can count on us to not mention the UK harbored him there in East London.” It’s obvious Frazier is being facetious. He doesn’t wait for a response. “Harry,” Frazier asks, ignoring Nigel’s attempt at humor, “who do you have who might want to work this, who might fit into with a bunch of old farts on a cruise? And who can nail this bastard before he straps on a vest or whatever is up.”
“Everyone is out of pocket or involved in a mission that is more insistent. And this guy is not the vest type. He sends others to take a trip to paradise. Let’s hope he’s on a recon mission or trying to travel somewhere without showing his face at London’s well watched and videoed airports.”
Again, Frazier clears his throat. “Harry, I guess you need a little sun. I'll clear it with your director.” It’s not a question, but rather an order. And Frazier knows the FBI Director will go along.
“I guess a fella could pull worse duty," Harry groans, "…unless, of course, Mumin or Yazid or whatever has a half ton of C4 on board. That could screw up a vacation.”
“Exactly why,” Frazier says, “I want you to meet the Blue Pearl in Bordeaux. We’ve already made arrangements with Crimson for a new passenger. I know it will break your heart but the only accommodations…”
“Fuck, I’m in the bilge?” Harry moans.
Frazier laughs. “Right. The only accommodations left are a grand suite. It’s booked after Malaga, but that’ll give you a few days in style to recon the situation. Take a good suit and your wife along. Crimson is giving us a hell of a deal. Zero.”
“My wife zeroed me out five years ago, chief.”
“I’m sorry. I forgot. Girlfriend?”
“Not one I want to offer up as possible fish food.”
“Good point. You have a passport as?”
“Not James Bond. Harry Drummond, with cards as a fertilizer salesman from Columbus, Ohio.”
That's the shits," he says, and laughs, then continues, "I guess spreading b s is appropriate,” Frazier says, and laughs again. “I’ll advise my contact at Crimson to look for you in Bordeaux, tomorrow.”
Then it dawns on Harry. “How big is this suite.”
“Two bedrooms,” Frazier says, “but I don’t think you want to take the grandkids.”
“No, but my assistant, Angelina Lara, is qualified for field work. And she can get places and answers I might not be able to reach.”
“She is a distraction,” Frazier says. “Hard not to notice her.”
“But she speaks French, Farsi, Arabic and Spanish. She could be useful. I can get her a passport as Angelina Drummond by morning.”
“Take her. She’d likely be twiddling her thumbs until your return anyway. Only problem is no one will believe an old fart like you could attract a Latina fox like her.”
“We’ll make it work,” Harry says, used to Frazier’s sense of humor.
“Bring back the bacon,” Frazier says.
“Weinstein’s don’t do bacon.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” Frazier says. “But likely Drummond’s do.”
“I’ll order a side, and pack my Speedo,” Harry says.
Again, Frazier chuckles. “That’s a picture that wi
ll haunt me. Okay, that’s it until we get a field report from you, Harry.”
“We’ll be around to pick up the pieces,” Nigel says, with his own low chuckle.
“Harry,” Frazier continues, “ask for John Chung when you get to the ship. He’s number one security on the Blue Pearl and he’ll escort you aboard, so you don’t frighten the natives with whatever you’re carrying these days.”
“John Chung, it is.”
I’m happy I’m on the major city side, the left side, of Blue Pearl as we steam up the Garonne River to dock. I’ll enjoy this couple of days, except missing Omaha Beach. I’m a Jack Daniel’s guy, but I like wine and it seems Simone and her charges are going to charge off to a number of wineries and enjoy lunch and supper and lunch again with wine pairing feasts. Feasts I can do. Again, I’ve cancelled their mass transportation provided by the cruise line and lined up a limo that will transport the seven of us.
As always, I brush up on the area. Bordeaux is a city of over a million population if you include adjacent villages. It’s the premier wine growing region of the world, according to Bordelais, as the inhabitants are called. California, Argentina, Chile and Australia disagree, but it does host the world’s major wine fair, Vinexpo, and is renowned as an outstanding urban and architectural ensemble of the eighteenth century, according to UNESCO. After Paris, it has the highest number of preserved buildings in France. I like history, food, and wine, so expect to enjoy Bordeaux.
We leave before the coach. Until the first stop I ride up front with Jacque, our driver and guide, as I want to get the feel of the guy and make sure he obeys the law and doesn’t put my client at risk. Jacque has ear buds and a microphone which projects through the limo’s speakers, and asks if we want narration as we travel, and Simone says, “Please.” I'm pleased at her politeness.
Simone and party want to cruise the old city before the thirty-minute drive to Chateau Smith Haut Lafitte where Connie and I tag along at a respectful and propitious distance, but also enjoy the tour of vineyards and winery, a sixteenth century tower, and two underground cellars. The owners have reintroduced horse-drawn plowing, which kind of amuses me but thrills most of the tourists, including Connie so I keep my amusement to myself. It’s good show but wouldn’t fly in Wyoming. Unless, of course, you had lots of paying tourists.
The lunch with wine pairing is magnificent and I’m a little sorry I’m working, so it’s far more swill and spit than swallow.
I do get braced by Simone as she complains about my booking private transportation. She claims she wants to be plebian and ride the coach with the folks, which surprises me and makes me like her a little more. Then again, she may not be getting enough adulation from her intimate crew. I’ll reserve my judgment.
The driver, Jacque, is knowledgeable of the history of the area and takes us on a long tour before returning. Simone has us booked into a five-star joint for supper, with Connie and me at a separate table per my request. She always seems a little peeved when I want to sit separate from her, as if I’m insulting the diva, but the fact is, I can better do my job if I’m not identified as protection. A wise attacker would take out protection and bodyguard first. Surprise is a great advantage. So, it’s best to be the surprise rather than the surprised.
Le Chicoula is one of those fusion joints and I’m hungry. Every bite is exquisite, but there’s just not enough bites for a two-hundred-plus-pound guy who’s been stomping vineyards and wineries all day. But I resign myself as I need to stay alert and a full gut is counterproductive. Besides, I can chow down again on the ship where portions are geared for American chowhounds.
So far, I’ve been more than pleased that even those folks who seem to recognize Simone keep their distance, that is until we’ve finished our meal. I’ve asked Simone to let me lead when we’re entering or leaving someplace, at least a public place away from the ship, and so far, she’s been pretty good.
She does hesitate and let me pass before walking out onto Rue de Cursol, the narrow street. I quickly discover that someone has ratted us out, as there is a half-dozen photographers in a semicircle awaiting her exit.
Shouting and pushing.
Not good.
17
I’ve been down this trail before and know you must give paparazzi their space so long as they don’t invade the clients to the point of possible injury. And that, to me, means a little more than an arm’s length.
Closer can be dangerous.
Simone is wearing a shoulder bag, larger than she would normally have as a clutch—what she'd normally take to a nice supper place. And as she’s not particularly concerned with theft, it’s open.
I am concerned and watch carefully as the paparazzi crowd around her. She’s laughing and trying out her rudimentary French when I step forward and make sure they don’t get right in her face with video and still cameras. I’ve seen lips busted and eyebrows requiring stitches from the sharp rims of camera lenses.
She growls at me, seemingly enjoying the attention and not wanting me to queer the moment. I notice a hand snake into her purse and come out with a wallet. He’s a good grafter as he hunkers over hiding his crime as he picks the goods, and had I not been carefully watching the invitation of a wide-open target, he’d have been long gone. The little worm of a guy quickly fades back into the crowd—bystanders have gathered to see what the attraction is—and I shove between a couple of photographers and see the worm striding away. I charge, quietly in soft-soled shoes. In ten strides, I’ve caught up and use the ball of my palm to smack him behind the head. He goes to his face on the pavement. I expect the prick to leave a grease smear, but there's only a smear of blood. I reach around him and snag the wallet from his front pocket as he’s trying to get to his knees.
The last thing I want is to spend half the night at the gendarmerie, or the police nationale, as it’s hard to do your job if you’re miles away being interviewed.
Rather than hold the prick for the police, I give him a swift boot in the butt as he’s trying to get up. He shoots another six feet forward, comes up with a skinned nose to match the abrasion on his cheekbone, which I only see as he looks back as he’s beating feet down the street.
Simone has broken free of the gaggle of photographers, and as usual is eyeing me like I’m dog-do, and yells at me, “What was that all about? That won’t look good in the local papers.”
I serve her the wallet on the flat of my hand as if a waiter serving hors d'oeuvres, and she looks sheepish, starts to say something but chokes on it, as I suggest, “Keep the purse zipped, please.” I don’t add ‘and keep your mouth zipped’ no matter the urge.
The limo was unable to park nearby. I called Jacque when we were finishing up supper, and he now arrives.
I laugh as Simone holds the door for Connie and me and gives me a sincere, “Thank you,” as I crawl in.
She’s learning.
I do talk her into attending a 'meet the crew' function in the show lounge as we're back in time. Captain Van Groot is introduced by the hotel manager and we learn there are twenty-five officers on board, half ship-operation, half hotel, all subject to the orders of Van Groot. We meet a half dozen of them, most on the hotel staff that deals with passengers.
Then it's off to the casino as the ship is again at sea. Simone is a terrible blackjack player and contributes at least five hundred bucks before the kids hit the bar for a nightcap.
“I can’t risk it,” John Chung says as he and Harry Weinstein, now Harry Drummond, and Angelina Lara, now Angelina Drummond, meet in the privacy of Chung’s small Blue Pearl office.
Chung has the round face and hooded eyes of an Asian, and is on the squat side, but Harry evaluates him and his thick chest and heavy shoulders, deciding he's a lot more muscle than fat. His heavy upper body is well anchored by a thick belly and legs. His furrowed brow suggests his intense interest.
Chung continues, "All ships must comply with the ISP—International Ship and Port Facility Security Code. I'm obligated to report any
security issue to next port authority prior to arrival."
“Your call,” Harry says. “Also, it’ll be your responsibility if this guy who now calls himself Mumin Amir is only the tip of a very dangerous iceberg. I have the feeling he’s not working alone. If he is, he’s only travelling, and we’ll have no problem on board. If not, your legacy could be six hundred dead. And these folks are normally technologically very efficient. I guarantee all your ship-to-shore communications are being monitored and if they think they’re discovered, it's very likely you'll have to deal with a major incident long before you dock.”
Chung sighs deeply. His jaw is set. He’s not happy, but he understands the problem. “Okay, so what’s your next move?”
“Mumin is on board as a passenger, so, easily watched. While we keep tabs on him, and every employee he comes in contact with, you keep a close eye on any of your people with Muslim, Arabic or other names.”
“Hell, there must be two dozen,” he snaps. “We've got Muslim Indonesian and Pilipino as well as those from the Near East. All of our employees are vetted and of course have passports so were evaluated by their home countries long before hired by us."
“As were the couple of dozen who flew planes into the Twin Towers."
He sighs deeply. "Point well taken."
"Then you watch two dozen. But if it were me, I’d closely watch only those employed by the line in the last eighteen months. I’ll bet there’re not more than a handful.”
“Makes sense,” Chung agrees. “What else?”
“Let us know if Mumin has any excursions booked so we can go along. Other than that, it’s watch and wait. You should know that our people and London’s are working on the background of all your onboard employees. If anything turns up, we’ll be the first to know.”