Tsunami Connection

by Michael James Gallagher

  "You knew I would break it down if you didn't answer," replied Shafiq.

  ″I suppose I did," said Kamal, the double agent.

  "Your debt is paid. This is the last visit. There will be a bonus if I get out of the country safely. I will deposit 1000 Euros in your Swiss account when I arrive at my destination."

  "Allah be praised. There is only one God," he said and added, "there is an American expression I learned from a US marine in Pakistan near the Afghan border that seems appropriate: It's been business doing pleasure with you.″

  "Your memory fails you, but not me. I remember where you learned that expression," said Shafiq, anger rising in his voice.

  "No insult intended. No insult intended, even if I did learn that expression from a pig selling filth, heroin, to children for his own profit," said Kamal, his tone betraying his distaste with working with non-believers like Shafiq.

  Some years earlier in Afghanistan, Shafiq, a circumcised Coptic Christian, was on one of a series of missions buying Russian made AK-47s and Czechoslovakian Semtex plastic explosive for Yochana. Mossad wanted to frame some alleged terrorists using it. Kamal was Shafiq's in-country connection. Kamal, who pleaded that he had never wanted to lead Shafiq into a trap. The double agent swore he had not known of the ambush that ensued.

  At that time, the Taliban had captured Shafiq and Kamal. Kamal had suffered a grazing gunshot wound to the head that left him dazed. For no apparent reason, the young Taliban captor pulled down Shafiq's pants, then exclaimed aloud that Shafiq was an Infidel, a 'Jew'.

  While the second Taliban guarded Kamal, the younger assailant then moved to strangle Shafiq. Shafiq demonstrated years of special-forces training. He jumped through the space between his bound hands, head-butted his accuser and managed to stab both of his attackers with their own knives. All this with his hands tied in front of him.

  Shafiq and Kamal barely escaped with their lives, due entirely to Shafiq's skill and training. Shafiq had no proof, but he never completely trusted Kamal again. Since that time, Kamal had been working off the debt of getting them into that situation. The money that they were siphoning off was just bach sheesh, or bribery, common in Egypt. Shafiq had never really forgotten what he was sure was Kamal's treachery because Shafiq was a Christian.

  As he walked toward the shower, he admired the Tombolini linen suit he carried. He also brought one of the phones. Kamal went downstairs. The GIS man washed quickly. He picked up the shrink-wrapped boxes and checked the seams of the packaging. All seemed new. He opened one phone's wrapping and dialed a number from memory. An answering machine asked for a message. As per his own instructions, he said, "Airport in 84 hours."

  The person, who checked the message machine every 24 hours at 8 am, verified the time of the call. This phone operator then automatically ordered a Learjet to be waiting in two days, February 5, 2011, for a man using a pre-arranged code word. Ironically, Mubarak was the word arranged at a time when no one could have imagined a time without President Mubarak. Shafiq took the contents of the locked box, his three legends, and left Kamal's home without saying goodbye.

  MINYA DESERT AIRPORT

  February 5, 2011

  The city of El Minya lay on the Nile, not too far from Cairo. It serviced the Eastern Desert oil industrial complex. Shafiq fit in seamlessly. His suit, though light colored for an oilman, was appropriate to the climate. His arrival by helicopter completed the picture, suggesting a visit to a drilling rig deep in the desert. He had pulled in many favors to get the helicopter ride; many more than would have normally been required for such a favor, but these were not ordinary times.

  His arrival at El Minya Airport was internal, so there was no customs check. He was leaving by a private Learjet under an assumed name. The transport was provided by his old friend, Hakikah, at Royal Dutch Petroleum. Shafiq was using documentation that would see him through to Argentina and freedom from the turmoil that his Egypt had become. The flight was a forty-five minute hop. Arrival in Be'er Sheva, welcomed by his old partner, Yochana, would be a breeze.

  The Learjet settled down in Be'er Sheva, Israel, and an armor-plated Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows pulled up beside it. The man disembarking from the plane in Israel covered his face with large dark glasses and a baseball cap, sporting USS Ronald Reagan on its brim. The cap had what is often called 'scrambled eggs′ at its base. He was dressed in khaki pants and a crisply ironed thick black cotton shirt, but his military stance and posture led any but the most interested to believe he was a visiting American Military officer. In the airport hangar in Egypt, Shafiq had stenciled an American flag on the port side of the aircraft, now facing the airport buildings. The passenger side door opened and Shafiq slipped into the frosty air-conditioning of the Cadillac Escalade. Once the door closed, he took off his cap and sunglasses. Yochana leaned over from the driver's seat and embraced him, somewhat more warmly than he was expecting. She raised her hand before he could speak.

  "You are accomplishing a miracle for me. Your actions are my thanks. Now tell me what you have arranged."

  "I contacted an old adversary of yours. Do you remember Michael MacAuley?" said Shafiq.

  "That bastard is on our most wanted list. He was spotted in Aceh Province several times since 2006, but like all the terrorists seen entering Indonesia since the Twin Towers went down, they seem to elude us once they are in the jungle."

  "He has the ability to accomplish what you asked. That is why I used him. I have the keys to his sister. He becomes surprising easier to manipulate when it comes to her safety. It is a card I've played carefully but successfully once before."

  "Maybe you are right, but still, how can you trust him?"

  "I own him."

  "You?"

  "In 2009, when I bought weapons for you in Afghanistan, he and I were there at the same moment. Call it serendipity, happenstance. My American counterparts had picked him up in a raid on a Taliban enclave near Kandahar. The thing was that they didn't know who they had, and MacAuley was heavy on the denial. As well, he was carrying a valid Canadian passport under the name of Kenny, John Kenny, a primary school teacher, supposedly on a fact-finding mission for an obscure, oddly funded, small, non-governmental organization headquartered in a small town just east of Montreal. If my memory serves me, the name of the town was North Haterick or something like that."

  "He certainly gets around, that one," replied Yochana.

  "Anyway, he was released into my custody. I acted as a go-between to his freedom in return for his silence about the water boarding he'd received at the hands of the Americans. God knows how he didn't give in under interrogation. He is one tough nut to crack," said Shafiq, impressing even himself with his Americanisms.

  "Get on with it. How are you using him in this action?"

  "He will provide the suicide bomber you requested of me in our earlier discussions. The bomber will be in the Sinai, near the coast on February 2, 2012. All is ready. MacAuley has assured me that there will indeed be a suicide bomber in place at the required time next year when your helicopters pass. I will provide the weaponry from the stockpiles I got for you in Afghanistan. The RPG will misfire, as will his vest bombs. The explosives will be good, but the mechanisms faulty."

  "How can you trust such slime to do what you wish?"

  "As I said earlier, I know the whereabouts of the only thing Michael MacAuley cares about in this life, his sister, a beautiful young woman with the selfsame name. He knows that I have her under surveillance and have had for several years. In fact, she is in Buenos Aires. I will be able to watch her very intimately, thanks to our new agreement. In the past, I used Egyptian undercover people that I directed from Egypt. Now I'll be in Buenos Aires and able to oversee the woman much more directly.″

  "I have personally verified all of the documents I gave you today. There are no holes in your new legend. Your monies have been deposited safely in Buenos Aires and Geneva, as per your instructions. I am grateful. It is too bad that history has force
d us to end such a mutually beneficial, long-standing relationship. Incidentally, it is lucky you exited Egypt by your own means," said Yochana.

  "Why is that?" asked Shafiq.

  "It may be just a coincidence, but those tunnels I suggested to you for your way out were blown up today after you sent the codes. I was sure you were dead," answered the Mossad General.

  "There is much going on in Egypt. Just look at the disruption of natural gas supplies to Israel. For once, I think we can safely say that the tunnels being destroyed are just a coincidence, even though I don't like coincidences," added Shafiq.

  "At any rate, watch your back. Good bye," said Yochana.

  At that, Shafiq edged up, put on the USS Ronald Reagan cap and made for the door of the Escalade. He walked briskly back to the Learjet, boarded and sat alone in the jet. There was bottle of Tobermory Single Malt, its yeast and water drawn through the dark aromatic Isle of Mull peat of the Highlands of Scotland. He grinned as he cracked the cap open and toasted his new life. He savoured the light smoky smell and fruity taste as he thanked his lucky stars for having worked all these years as a Mossad double agent. She was always as good as her word, he thought, as the plane broke over the Mediterranean on the first leg of his long journey to Argentina.

  CONNECTING IN CALIFORNIA

  February 19,2012

  The plane circled over San Francisco Airport at twilight. Seeing the sun engraving the stark form of the Golden Gate Bridge from her window, Kefira sighed loudly enough to draw a comment from her seat partner.

  "If you were playing an instrument, it'd be called the heart strings, honey."

  "It'll do it to me every time," replied Kefira.

  "I was beginning to wonder if I'd get anything but snores out of you."

  "Been a long week."

  "I hear ya. Praised be the Lord."

  The last snippet of conversation turned Kefira's head. She had forgotten how forthright Americans were about their chosen faith. It was something she loved about America even when it was pushy. She laughed, tossed her head back, and gave the middle-aged African-American woman a big smile.

  "A little chutzpah goes a long way."

  "What say, honey? I never did learn my Latin in school."

  "Nothing. Let's just say you made me realize what a great country this is."

  "Sista, there ain't no better, an' I bin ta some. I sure wish I could sleep like you all."

  The plane touched down with just a brush of the wheels on the tarmac and both women joined in with the travelers clapping in appreciation of their safe arrival. Kefira took her carry-on from under the seat in front of her and nodded a good-bye to her seat partner.

  "Take care now."

  "Here honey. This is from my church. Everyone's welcome. See, there's a picture of me. I'm in the choir."

  "Thank you. I'll keep it in mind."

  Kefira's Land Rover was just where she had left it. The sound of the motor was like an old friend as Stan Getz and Charlie Byrd filled the fast cooling air in the cab. She arrived at Parker and 9th Streets in 23 minutes. What was left of her dance school shocked her. The facade was standing, but all the glass was gone at 950 9th Street. The inside was a total write-off. Yellow police tape surrounded the building and was knotted around the door handles. There was a detective's card taped to the window. She took down the number and returned to her car. Too many shocks for such a short time, she thought.

  Kefira had come to California to follow up on her instincts. Yochana did not want her to stop by here on the way to America. She had said it was an unnecessary distraction. The ex-IDF General, her control, had told her to let sleeping dogs lie, but Kefira could not understand why her studio had been targeted. Something did not smell right about Yochana's insistence that there was no link to the MacAuley assault on her team. How could Yochana possibly know for certain unless Yochana was involved somehow?

  The sleeper was so certain of her intuition that she had covertly searched the Mossad databases for information about the fire. Kefira had discovered that Mossad agents had found shards of detonators in the studio fire, and that those detonators were sourced back to Mossad supplies under Yochana's control. Wheels within wheels! What possible reason could Yochana have had for destroying my studio? wondered Kefira.

  Kefira's drive took her by the old sights, such as Twin Peaks, as streetcars rattled by in the darkening evening. The daily fog had dissipated somewhat, but was still thick enough to add to the gloom in Kefira's darkening mood. At one point, she could not see the streetcar that was jangling and jolting toward her on Twin Peaks.

  Kefira paused, unsure that she wanted to go directly home. She was afraid that her home might be a shambles like her studio. The three days of changing planes so that she could be certain no one had come after her – from England to Helsinki, then on to Paris, then back to England. That leg of the journey, by the Chunnel under the English Channel on the Eurostar, followed by a car rental in yet another name, and a drive to Heathrow for the flight to New York, ensued by the morning flight to San Francisco, had drained her.

  People are getting killed all around me. This thing must be much bigger than just my team's demise. In a snap judgment, Kefira pursued her hunch, turned away from Upper Terrace, the street address of her home, and headed back downtown to a nondescript hotel using yet another passport. "Not being careful means dying," she said aloud, shaking herself into action.

  Kefira spent the night tossing and turning in a cheap motel. There was an odor of old feet that was impossible to ignore coming from the spotted, nondescript, wall-to-wall carpet. The sheets had been tightened, perhaps regularly, but not changed in a long time. Dawn came at the Lex, a motel that advertised free porn and welcomed 'tranis' and 'dykes'. Kefira was startled when she looked in the mirror. The fatigue of the recent past had caught up to her. She left the second floor room, exiting onto an open-air passage from which she could see her vehicle in the parking lot.

  She had parked opposite her room as a decoy, both to disguise her room's location and to be able to see her vehicle from a distance. She got back into her car and took her cell out of her pocket and was about to dial when she thought better of it.

  Have I become complacent, here in California? pondered Kefira.

  While driving around a corner with an abandoned building on it, she opened the back of the phone and removed the SIM card. She then pitched the phone out the window. On the GPS, she typed 2100 Martin Luther King, Berkeley. It was the address on the card she had taken from the window of her destroyed dance studio.

  Directly on the way to the Berkeley Homicide Department was Wireless Gadgets. They advertised: 'We unlock all phones.″ Kefira parked on Geary Street and walked to number 10. She went in and bought four phones, had the techie unlock them all, paid cash and left, all in twenty minutes. Back in her car, she removed the SIM cards and replaced them with secure cards provided by Zak, all except one. Using the fourth phone with its original SIM card, she phoned the number on the detective's card. He responded brightly, "Berkeley Police Department Homicide. Lieutenant Chavez."

  "This is Ms. Kathy Sonata. My dance studio suffered an accident when I was out of town. I found your name on the business card attached to the front door and I am on the way to see you. Are you free?"

  "I will make time for you, Ms. Sonata. Please come right up to room 305."

  Kefira, using her pseudonym for the attendant, parked her car and went in the front entrance. A constable at the front desk directed her to Homicide and Lieutenant Chavez's office. He was waiting at the door as she arrived. Chavez could not help himself. His eyes took in Ms. Sonata, cleavage to eyes and then to cleavage again.

  "You always do that look-over thing to women, Lieutenant?" asked Kefira, unbalancing the interview in her favor right from the start.

  "I, ah …"

  "That will be all, Lieutenant. Let's get down to business. My family was in the military. I am used to being around men. Don't take my abruptness to heart. I am my Daddy'
s girl and he was a Major in the Marines."

  "Please come in, Ms. Sonata," he said emphasizing the 'z' in 'Ms.' as a sign of respect. He still could not resist a repressed sigh as she passed in front of him and sat down. Her perfume was working its magic again. Kefira started talking a little breathlessly and filled Chavez in on her tourist visit to Israel. Then she proceeded to ask questions about the remains of her employee. The police, it seemed, had called it an accidental explosion. They did not know that Mossad agents had scoured the site and found a piece of detonator missed by 'the Blue' in Berkeley. Kefira was waiting to get information secretly from the Mossad database on the forensics of the detonator. Here, from Chavez, she wanted some clarifications only.

  The Lieutenant was arrogant but helpful, his eyes uncontrollably greedy. She had chosen the right outfit, a tight-fitting, violet-colored Danskin wrap-around dress that left little to the imagination. She wanted the staff to remember her here. Kefira wanted to distract Chavez, keep him paying attention to her, not her questions.

  "Are there any articles that I could pass on to the family of the deceased employee?" asked Kefira.

  "Actually, I went to get them when you phoned. Here in this box is everything."

  He passed the box over the desk between them. Kefira bent over and gave him an eyeful as she took the box. He cleared his throat, looked away, and tightened his neck muscles, jutting his chin upwards. He was unable to judge how to behave with this woman. Opening the box, Kefira realized that, coincidentally, she might have been the real target. Her favorite Panama straw sunhat and part of her Aquascutum trench coat jumped out of the box at her. Her breath inhaled loudly, but she recovered quickly.

  "Something wrong?" he said.

  "It's too real seeing this," she replied, without skipping a beat.

  Her coat and hat were a mess. The coat was burned to shreds and the hat was soot covered. "What a shame. Such a young life snuffed out."