Deadly Passage

by Lawrence Gold

  While they caught up on old times, the two young Americans wobbled toward the restrooms on legs now more adapted to the sea than land.

  Enrico studied them. ‘‘Not the most seaworthy crew you’ve ever had, amigo.’’

  ‘‘Ryan, the skinny one, learned something about sailing. The girl was ballast.’’

  ‘‘What’s their story?’’

  ‘‘Ryan said they were on vacation.’’

  ‘‘Sure, amigo, and I’m Fidel.’’

  ‘‘They’re paying me enough not to get nosy. When I asked Ryan if he still needed my services, the arrogant bastard said he’d let me know when he’s damn ready.’’

  ‘‘I dealt with immigration, and the Guardia, as you requested. You’ll have my bill.’’

  ‘‘Keep my tab running. I’ll need you again, soon.’’

  ‘‘Be careful, my friend. These Americans look innocent, but they might be trouble. I don’t want to lose you, or my investment.’’

  Carlos patted his friend on the shoulder and took a slug of beer. ‘‘Tell me, amigo, when did I ever have customers who were all that they seemed?’’

  The next morning, Ryan woke early, found a pay phone, and dialed the number he’d memorized in Trinidad.

  ‘‘Si, Digame.’’

  ‘‘Señor Lopez?’’

  ‘‘Speaking.’’

  ‘‘You were expecting friends from Trinidad. We’ve just arrived at the International Marina.’’

  ‘‘I hope you had a good trip. How are you and your sister?’’

  ‘‘Happy to be back on land.’’

  ‘‘Take a taxi and meet me at the Hotel Casa Grande’s bar at 6.’’

  ‘‘Is everything ready?’’

  ‘‘See you at 6.’’

  Shortly before 6 p.m., Ryan climbed into the 1958 Chevrolet Impala taxi. ‘‘Hotel Casa Grande, por favor.’’

  The driver raced through narrow city streets, studying the American through his rearview mirror.

  Ryan growled, ‘‘Keep your damned eyes on the road.’’

  When they arrived at the ancient white colonnaded hotel, the driver handed him a business card. ‘‘Call me when you need to return, Señor.’’

  Ryan took the steel-gated elevator to the roof garden bar, and scanned the tables until he spotted his contact.

  He stretched his hand in greeting, and then they embraced.

  Jorge Lopez was big-bellied middle-age man with a thick black beard. He returned a deformed hand with a weak handshake, and murmured, ‘‘Alaikum salaam.’’

  ‘‘Your hand… what happened?’’

  ‘‘What do you think happened? This is no game, Señor. Our enemies wanted information, and tried to convince me to share it. Allah was with me.’’

  Ryan shook his head. ‘‘Whatever.’’

  Lopez stared at Ryan for a moment. ‘‘How much time do you need?’’

  ‘‘We’ll be ready to go in two days, but Carlos says the boat needs electrical and engine work, and the mainsail is in bad shape. He’s telling me that his repair people and the sailmaker are not available for two weeks.’’

  ‘‘The electrician and mechanic will meet you at the boat tomorrow at 8. I’ll make sure the sailmaker gets there, too.’’

  ‘‘Don’t screw this up.’’

  After they finished their beer, Lopez scanned the roof garden. ‘‘Let’s take a walk.’’

  As they strolled along quiet, tree-lined streets, the Cuban stopped several times to look around and assure that nobody was following. They sat on a wooden bench in a small park, and Lopez scanned the area, once more.

  ‘‘Calmarte, Lopez,’’ Ryan, said. ‘‘Don’t worry so much.’’

  ‘‘The package arrived by diplomatic pouch yesterday from Syria. Between you and me, the sooner I get rid of it, the better.’’

  ‘‘It’s freeze-dried, and perfectly safe.’’

  ‘‘So you say.’’

  ‘‘Do you have somebody who knows how to reconstitute and administer the material?’’

  ‘‘Yes, I have a physician we can trust. I’ll arrange the meeting.’’

  ‘‘I’ll expect to hear from you in 3 to 4 days. You’ll call Enrico at the marina to reach me. I’ll see you there.’’

  ‘‘Not me, Señor Ryan. I’m going nowhere near that stuff.’’

  Ryan grabbed Lopez by his shirt, and pulled him close. He fixed his icy blue eyes on the Cuban. ‘‘Trust me, Señor, you will be there.’’

  Chapter Eighteen

  (1966)

  Kamal Yamin had grown up in Baghdad as the only son of a prominent Sunni family. His father taught economics at Baghdad University, and served as an advisor and ardent supporter of Saddam Hussein. Kamal loved his father’s stories of ancient Mesopotamia. ‘‘We were among the world’s first civilizations. The earliest writing came from us, and the world owes us a debt for science, math, law, and philosophy. The world’s acclaim belongs to Iraq as The Cradle of Civilization.’’

  When his father talked about today’s world, the patriarch became bitter about Iraq’s surrounding neighbors, especially Israel, as well as the United States. ‘‘Saddam Hussein is our one opportunity to reestablish our true role in the Middle East, and the world. You, my son, will participate in our glorious future.’’

  Kamal went to England after graduating from college. He completed his post-graduate work in microbiology and virology at the University of East Anglia. Kamal was uncomfortable in the company of Christians or Jews, and so spent his time with the small Sunni student contingent. They prayed together five times a day, and shunned outsiders.

  Kamal met Sabeen Zobi, also from an eminent Sunni family.

  Sabeen shared her interest in Kamal with friends. ‘‘He’s tall, good looking, and from a well-known family—a good catch, for sure.’’

  While Sabeen’s beauty and independent spirit intrigued him, her ability to meet his eyes and speak her own mind confounded him. They married on their return to Baghdad, and in 1970, they had their first and only child, Karim.

  The Yamin family was less than enthusiastic about Sabeen. They would have preferred a more traditional woman than the one who appeared in public in fashionable clothing. When she shared her liberal ideas about women in Iraqi culture with others, it embarrassed the elder Yamins.

  Kamal took a teaching position at the university, and did research on plant and animal viruses. His work received international acclaim at major scientific meetings.

  When representatives of the government asked Kamal to accept an appointment to Al Hakum, the new biological weapons facility 60 km SW of Baghdad, he refused. ‘‘My work is too important.’’

  At home that evening, he told Sabeen about the offer. ‘‘I’m not going to pervert my talent to produce biological weapons. I’m a scientist, not a killer. I won’t waste my life to satisfy overzealous generals. Besides, these weapons don’t discriminate between the guilty and the innocent, or between soldiers and civilians. Their use can only bring disaster for us. They’ll justify a reaction, in kind, or worse, a massive military response, perhaps even nuclear. Many in the West are looking for an excuse to use those weapons.’’

  To no one’s surprise, Kamal’s father arrived later that evening. He pointed to a chair, and commanded. ‘‘Sit. It’s your patriotic duty.’’

  ‘‘They’re thugs, Father. They don’t understand the implications of such weaponry. You know them. You know how they think. We can’t be a part of this.’’

  ‘‘You’re young, my son. Often, I think life’s been too easy for you… that I haven’t prepared you for the world as it is, not as we’d like it to be.’’

  ‘‘That’s ridiculous.’’

  His father reddened. ‘‘How dare you talk to me that way.’’

  Kamal’s stomach tightened. ‘‘I’m sorry, Father. I meant no disrespect.’’

  ‘‘I understand, Kamal, but like all great countries, once Iraq possesses weapons of mass destruction, it need not use them to e
xert its will. You only need to look at the West, at Israel and the United States, to see the benefits of having such weapons in our arsenal.’’

  They argued into the night.

  ‘‘You trust them?’’ Kamal asked. ‘‘You trust Saddam to not use biological weapons against his enemies?’’

  ‘‘I only trust Saddam to act in his own interest. The indiscriminate use of these weapons will only hasten his downfall, and he knows it.’’

  Finally, after reassurances, Kamal reluctantly accepted the position out of respect for his father.

  After Kamal’s father left, Sabeen was clearly upset. ‘‘We had plans, and they didn’t include your part in developing biological weapons.’’

  In most Muslim homes, husbands would not have tolerated a woman’s unsolicited opinion. But this, Kamal knew, was not just any home, and Sabeen was not just any woman.

  He placed his hand on her shoulder. ‘‘How are we to protect ourselves when our enemies may use them against us? Even the Americans have biological weapons facilities, although they disavow their use.’’

  Sabeen stroked his cheek. ‘‘I love our country and our people, but let’s not be naive about our potential for violent and self-destructive behavior.’’

  Before the Gulf War, the Al Hakum laboratories had produced large amounts of botulinum toxin, and anthrax.

  In late 1990, Kamal had moved to a facility at Daura, 15 miles east of Baghdad, where they converted a hoof and mouth disease facility to biological weapons research. Their work emphasized bacteriology, virology, genetic engineering, and vaccine production. The world knew the name, Daura, from the 1981 Israeli attack on its nuclear reactor.

  The Iraqi chemical and biological weapons facilities went into high gear prior to the First Gulf War, and Kamal and his staff worked 18-hour days.

  In the spring of 1990, their son, Karim, bid them farewell, as he had orders to deploy with his brigade. Sabeen kissed her son, and watched as Kamal hugged him.

  Kamal took his son’s hand. ‘‘We love you. Be brave, but don’t be foolish. Come back to us.’’

  The assault on Kuwait began August 2nd, 1990. The Iraqi upper class and the military’s general officers went from exhilaration at the attack to abject fear when the United Nations authorized a counterattack by a coalition of 35 nations.

  Rampant rumors reverberated through the Daura and the Al Hakum facilities, and when the Iraqis issued vague threats that they would use chemical and biological weapons, the United States guaranteed an unlimited massive response.

  When Kamal’s father appeared at the family’s door on February 27th, 1991, Sabeen took one look at her father-in-law, and screamed. Karim was dead. He had died in the so-called Bulldozer Assault. The Americans had attacked the fortified Saddam Line’ south of Kuwait with plows mounted on tanks, burying Iraqi soldiers alive.

  Kamal squinted at the bedroom clock through bleary eyes: 3 a.m. He tossed in bed, rolled over, and finally slept, fitfully dreaming…

  The desert is dark along the Saddam Line. Flares light up the sky and explosions shake the ground. The Iraqi troops, in full retreat, huddle in the heavily fortified trench complex. The clatter and rumble of tracked vehicles and diesel engines are approaching from the south.

  Karim, wide-eyed with fear and exhaustion, speaks to the soldier next to him. ‘‘What’s that?’’

  The reply is a silent shake of the head. The sounds bear down on them, until Karim peeks from the trench. Tanks and earthmovers with headlights ablaze are plowing mountains of desert sand toward them as other men desperately try to escape.

  ‘‘Allah protect us!’’

  Karim tries to climb from the trench as a wall of sand drives him back. The terrified cries stop as sand fills the trenches, and buries the soldiers alive. Lying on his back at the trench’s bottom, Karim watches in horror as the avalanche of sand covers him.

  ‘‘Mother… father… forgive me.’’

  Kamal woke from his dream trying to scream, but only managed to gag on his spittle. His eyes were wide with the fury of revenge. He spoke to himself with determination. ‘‘What a fool I’ve been. Allah’s curse be upon Karim’s murderers. Soon, it will be their turn to die. This will be for you, my son.’’

  Kamal held up both arms, hands in fists, gesturing to the ceiling.

  Kamal worked with the obsessive energy of a zealot. Rumors surfaced that the biological and chemical weapons program faced elimination, but he didn’t believe them. When the United Nations Commission announced their plans for destroying the facilities, Kamal entered the lab one night, and removed and stored his most potent biological agents.

  In June of 1996, Kamal Yamin watched the facility’s destruction. ‘‘By Allah,’’ he swore, ‘‘I will still have my revenge.’’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Carlos Mendoza’s head throbbed. His mouth tasted like paste. He squinted in the bright sunlight as he wobbled down the International Marina’s dock toward Adios. Enrico had provided more than the cervezas, knowing that after six weeks at sea, Carlos would appreciate female companionship.

  Carlos returned to the boat for a change of clothes and his shower toiletries, as well as to put the mechanic to work on repairs.

  Ryan and Nicole stretched as they came up from below into the cockpit.

  Carlos was intrigued by Nicole; her youthful, blonde, blue-eyed all-American look reminded him of the original Cuban Spaniards.

  The ancient mechanic was asleep on his toolbox next to Adios. Carlos shook the man, and told him to change the oil and filter, check the batteries, and replace the raw water impeller, a rubber fan-blade part that forces water through the pump.

  ‘‘The batteries are about three years old. Check them, especially the starting battery, and replace them as needed. Can you get new batteries?’’

  ‘‘Si, Señor. We have a large battery factory in Santiago de Cuba. If I have to replace them, I’ll need help lifting them. I’m not so young anymore.’’

  ‘‘I’ll arrange it.’’

  On his way to shower, Carlos met Ryan and Nicole. ‘‘If the mechanic requires assistance lifting the batteries, you two need to help.’’

  ‘‘We’re paying for this passage, and your boat,’’ Ryan said. ‘‘You help.’’

  ‘‘I have business in town,’’ Carlos said. ‘‘Play it your way, but this will delay our departure from Cuba a week or more. That’s okay with me. I’ve got plenty of time.’’

  ‘‘You’re a real prick, Carlos.

  Carlos stepped toward Ryan. ‘‘What did you say?’’

  Ryan stood tall. ‘‘You heard me.’’

  ‘‘No tengo que tomar esta mierda,’’ Carlos shouted.

  They stared at him.

  ‘‘I don’t have to take this shit,’’ He translated. ‘‘You don’t like it, take your business elsewhere.’’

  ‘‘Look, Mendoza,’’ Ryan said. ‘‘You’re in no position to make a fuss. Perhaps you need a visit from the Guardia?’’

  ‘‘That’s an empty threat. You really don’t want the Guardia here.’’

  Ryan sighed. ‘‘Try me.’’

  ‘‘You’re a smart kid. Don’t be too smart with a captain at sea,’’ Carlos said as he shook his head, threw the towel over his shoulder, and walked back down the dock.

  Ricardo Muñoz headed The Committee for the Defense of the Revolution. He’d heard about Adios on the day it arrived. The CDR had 120,000 chapters all over Cuba, with a membership of over 8 million. Cubans called it a neighborhood association. Exiles and dissidents called the CDR a spy organization aimed at Cubans. Any hint of anti-revolutionary sentiments triggered a report by the CDR, and a visit by the National Police.

  Ricardo’s seven older brothers were larger and more athletic. They joined the military or the Guardia, but when Ricardo attempted to enlist, they had rejected him. He blamed it on his size; however, those who knew him well understood that people disliked his insincerity and transparent attempts to manipulate others.


  When Ricardo asked about their American visitors, the port captain nodded. ‘‘They came from Trinidad, not an American port. I’ve cleared them into the country. Everything’s in order.’’

  Ricardo trailed the Americans as they shopped and ate at local restaurants. Ryan wore sandals, short pants, and a loose-fitting shirt. Nicole wore a short, pleated skirt, a long sleeved blouse, and a bright-blue visor with her blonde hair flowing through. Ryan frowned with impatience as he tried to make conversation with broken Spanish. Nicole looked like she was enjoying herself, as she examined the clothes and jewelry.

  Ricardo moved into the plaza to get a closer look. When Ryan turned furtively to scan the crowd, their eyes met for a moment before Ricardo turned away, chilled by the American’s cold blue eyes.

  The face of evil, thought the Cuban.

  When Ricardo heard from a marina dockhand of Ryan’s taxi ride to the Hotel Casa Granda, he placed a call to a contact at the National Police.

  Chapter Twenty

  When the news of the 9-11 attacks on the World Trade Center reached Kamal Yamin in his laboratories in Afghanistan, he looked up to the heavens and smiled. He knew at once that he’d been wise to build a new facility in Pakistan, as the Americans would retaliate against Al-Qaeda in Afghanistan.

  By the time the United States invaded Afghanistan, Kamal and his wife had moved to North Waziristan, Pakistan. The facilities were meager, but were staffed by dedicated mujahedeen. His experience and stores of deadly biological agents gave them a powerful head start.

  In the fourth year of the Iraq War, Kamal sought the ears of senior Al-Qaeda officials.

  ‘‘I have material for a major biological attack against the United States.’’

  ‘‘What is it?’’

  ‘‘Hear me out. We simply infect one or two martyrs, and then sneak them into the United States. This infectious virus will, I promise, create spectacular effects.’’

  ‘‘How many can we kill?’’