Circle Around the Sun

by M. D. Johnson

  CHAPTER FIVE

  When the phone rang two hours later Emily Cowan deliberately let her son take the call.

  Some long trusted voice in her head told her who it was. She knew why he was calling and she knew it would be hard to resist saying “I told you so.” There was now absolutely no doubt in her mind that “The Man In The Shadow” had just struck the ultimate blow. This time there was no denying it.

  “Emily, my dear,” an old Etonian voice said blandly, “I think we need to have a little chat. By some strange coincidence, I’m in your neck of the woods…let’s say noon shall we? ‘The “Courtyard Tea Room’ in Centreville…I’m sure you remember how to get there.” And Sir Anthony Wallace-Terry, formerly of MI6 and diplomat extraordinaire cleared the line and, summoning his assistant Barbara Palmer, requested her to contact Eldon Davidson at the Israeli Embassy, as well as Jack Simmons at NSA.

  Maryland’s Route 50 is at best an overcrowded, badly maintained highway. Its minimum speed in some segments is 65 mph which when translated into commuter speak becomes 85 to 90 mph, depending on what is behind you or whether the state police are down in their quota of speeding tickets. Given being rear-ended by a large truck as an alternative, Emily felt she had no choice but to maintain an even 85 mph after she crossed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. She left her radio on and listened terrified as the updates continued. She headed east, then north toward the quaint little town of Centreville, a place she had always felt time had somehow forgotten. Centreville was for her, a sort of cross between the sixties TV Mayberry and the eternal Transylvania.

  Centreville, Maryland is home to the rest and relaxation compound of the Russian Embassy, which is set on some eighty acres of wooded countryside and surrounded by the small town. The choice piece of real estate clearly marked “No Admittance” in three languages is absurdly close to several non-working horse farms and surrounded by residential country estates. Those with enquiring minds knew that the adjacent estates were all appropriately leased to various intelligence agencies, as well as allied embassies. During the Cold War the area also hosted several government “safe houses”. Today, retired high ranking military and aging spies now into real estate occupied much of the territory. Crime was low, housing prices were just beginning to rise like everywhere else on Maryland’s Eastern Shore and designer retail outlets and antique shops attracted the public as they traveled to and from Ocean City. It was indeed the perfect meeting place for the great game of espionage, as it had been for four decades. Centreville espoused all the prerequisites of a modern spy thriller; subterfuge, intelligence gathering and the blessed omnipresence of them, watching us, watching them!

  When Mason was a teenager, to prove her point on the surveillance business on the Eastern Shore, Emily had set up a picnic close to the Russian compound. Of course, very few people outside of the intelligence community and the hard-core locals knew it was literally Russian soil. Feigning ignorance and ignoring the multilingual signs, this being America after all, Emily and her son set out their checkered cloth, baskets of southern fried chicken, fine cheeses and salad and began their count down to see how long it would take before officials asked them to move. They managed two cups of good British Ribena Blackberry Cordial (with blackberries actually grown at the Queen’s other home at Sandringham) and a piece of chicken each before the compound guards put in appearance and in halted English asked them to move along. They responded by saying this was America, and they could eat where they liked. The guards pointed to the sign. Black helicopters had begun to circle above. Fearing an international incident, Emily and her son conceded defeat, packed their baskets and left. They laughed all the way home. The object had been attained. “Never,” she warned her son, “think you are a totally free person, in this country or any other.”

  Emily considered the beauty of the surrounding area as she drove, then became aware of what looked like an unmarked police car following behind her. She checked her speedometer. She was not speeding excessively and given the age of her car probably couldn’t speed too much anyway, but she slowed down just in case. He did not attempt to pass. She continued thinking of the strategic importance of the area she was in.

  Of greater espionage value than the compound was Centreville’s close proximity to the Wye Research and Education Center, whose grounds incorporated the Aspen Institute, the site of the United States Institute for Peace. It was here that the Wye River Memorandum – Palestinian Israeli Interim Agreement on the West Bank had been facilitated and, albeit briefly, implemented.

  When the Aspen Institute, whose headquarters are in Washington, D.C. has a need for an out of the way venue for a conference, they use this center situated three miles south of Route 50. The institute lies a little beyond the Methodist Church on Carmichael Road. “This is where the action is,” Emily thought aloud, “all the big decisions are made here, not in bloody Camp David. It’s here, right here in my own backyard.”

  Emily followed Centreville Road towards the Town Center, confirming that the dark colored Crown Victoria was indeed still following her. Forgotten training had kicked in just minutes earlier, forcing her into the McDonald’s Drive-in on Route 50 for an orange juice just to test her theory.

  The driver waited, reaffirmed his position when she returned to the highway and remained close behind, almost tempting her to identify him openly. Smiling into her rear view mirror, she pulled into the parking lot. Seeing him arrive directly behind her, she smiled broadly and saluted him in Benny Hill fashion after she locked her car. She crossed the street and entered the café. What a fucking joke, she thought to herself.

  The situation reminded her of a time when she herself was spotted during a surveillance. Her quarry had entered a Ladies’ Room. She had of course followed right behind. Then the woman, realizing Emily’s lack of experience actually repeated the procedure five minutes later. Emily saw no choice but to remain with her. On using the toilet, the woman came out, washed her hands, carefully dried them, spun around, stared at Emily, smiled, bowed her head and said, “Checkmate, game over,” and left, quickly vanishing from sight before Emily could regain her composure.

  Throughout this latest procedure, Emily was conscious of the bulging awkwardness caused by the shoulder holster containing an old 9mm pistol and hoped it wasn’t too noticeable. Maryland, unfortunately, was not a “right to carry” state. If attacked she knew what to do. The words, “If you take it out, shoot to kill not to injure,” rang in her ears. There would be no choice. Sir Anthony Wallace-Terry would clean up the mess. That’s what they did these days. CIA, NSA, MI6 were, after all, the clean up men.

  Sir Anthony rose from his seat against the wall as she approached the table, kissing her lightly on the cheek and grasping her hands affectionately. “My dear, the years have been good to you,” he said.

  “No bloody thanks to you,” she replied tersely. “Oh by the way, thanks for the escort!”

  “Just making sure you got here safely my dear. Let’s order first, shall we? Wine or something stronger?”

  “Scotch please. Glen Livet, if you have it, no ice and a glass of ice water if you don’t mind,” replied Emily, looking around at a roomful of people, who all showed visible signs of stress as they discussed the morning’s events.

  “The usual for me, Shelley my dear, and some oysters on the half to start.”

  The young redheaded waitress offered the specials of the day and Emily selected lobster tail stuffed with Crab Imperial. Sir Anthony selected his favorite Chesapeake Crab Cakes. When she returned with their drinks, accompanied by salads and loaves of freshly baked rye bread dripping with honey butter, the server found the pair engrossed in an unusual conversation. For Shelley, the fact that they spoke in English was in itself unusual. ‘The Courtyard Café’ had an international clientele all year round. The Russian ambassadorial staff lunched there as often as they could get away. Visitors tiring of the hotel food at the conference center on the Wye River frequently came over for lunch. Their conversation w
as usually in a foreign language as well.

  The Café had in fact catered the Peace Conference several years ago. Emily often wondered if the wait staff needed security clearances to wait on the tables. The Café’s entire demeanor was chic and continental. From the green and white checkered cloths on the tables to the large white cups and oversized plates, the look was more the Parisian Bistro than the usual crab houses of Maryland’s Eastern Shore. But today, Shelley would note in her modest report to Israeli intelligence, everyone looked swollen-eyed and in despair, frozen in time as well as space and numbed by the events of the morning.

  When the third party arrived, Shelley noticed first shock and then consternation on the face of the woman she had just served. The latecomer, who had arrived in a black Mercedes sports car had parked right in front of the window. He glided in, almost walking on air. Shaking hands with the older man he turned to the woman and called her “Mina”, gently kissing both sides of her face. Emily, unseen by the others, brushed away a stray tear.

  When Shelley returned to the table to take his order and to deliver the oysters, she realized that the conversation was now in Arabic. She remembered the nasal sounds of the language from customers during the peace talks. The pretty young waitress, whose education was financed by her informal reporting skills to Israel’s Mossad had made a friend of one of the translators. He was Palestinian. She’d picked up a couple of extra words in his guttural Gaza dialect but this wasn’t so harsh. This language was beautiful and delicate sounding. Wealthy Arabic, she thought to herself.

  The stranger switched to English as she approached. He was a good looking man in his fifties, maybe older. He was tall, slim, and expensively dressed. The stranger’s hair was white, as was his moustache. He looked for all the world like the guy in that old movie about the Russian doctor. What was it now? She tried to recall. That was it, her mom’s favorite, ‘Dr. Zhivago’. The man looked liked Omar Sharif.

  ‘Zhivago’ ordered Caesar salad with chicken and some ice water and their conversation stopped until she moved from the table. How weird, Shelly thought to herself. This is like a movie. A well-fed Catherine Deneuve meets Omar Sharif. He seems very edgy despite his suave approach. Shelly noticed the muscle in his jaw twitching, and the woman looked like a lioness scoping out her prey.

  “Well, Yassir! Or is Tony more appropriate here in the States? It has been a long time. What is it now, twenty-five or twenty-six years? What are you doing here?” Emily asked as she sipped her scotch defiantly, knowing how the stranger disapproved of alcohol, particularly being drunk by a woman. Unless, of course, it was good champagne.

  “You’re looking wonderful.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Tony, and do get to the point. This isn’t a social visit. I know you, remember?”

  “As you wish, Mina. We need your assistance. My government has authorized me to ask you to form a committee of people with interests similar to your own and help us find out everything we need to know about our tall, skinny friend and all of his close associates

  “You will work with the full knowledge of the White House as well as that of Her Majesty’s Government,” interjected Sir Anthony Wallace-Terry. “Your old friends from Langley and Mossad will assist.”

  “This is about this morning, I take it?” she inquired. “You’re looking for HIM? Has al-Qaeda claimed responsibility for the attacks?”

  “Not exactly, Mina my dear. He’s in hiding somewhere in Afghanistan. We are more interested in assessing the activities of his followers worldwide. In short, stopping the cash flow may indeed curtail any further attacks, which is why we need your help,” replied Yassir Shallal, Special Advisor on Middle East Affairs to the President as well as close personal friend of the British Prime Minister and the unofficial go-between of both and the Saudi Government.

  “You see, he’s a sick man. He’s frail. There was an assassination attempt on his life last year. One of ours, of course. But Mina, we have it on good authority that his staunchest advisors and closest friends include none other than your ex-husband, Ghulam Ansari, and there’s another interesting little twist. His little pal Mustafa, you remember him, I’m sure, is on the opposite side of the Afghan fence. On our side, would you believe?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  She understood their request. Conduct a full scale “unofficial” investigation on the assets of al-Qaeda in this and other countries. Who does bin-Laden deal with? Who launders the money? Where is it deposited? Assess the possibility of full-scale terrorist attacks. Most importantly, Shallal had said, we want to get to his inner circle! Emily then asked if this was an unofficial termination project.

  “Absolutely not!” Wallace-Terry interjected, “bin Laden is too valuable alive. It behooves us to tell the world we are outraged, declare war on terrorism, and watch the bugger gain confidence. If he is killed he becomes even more dangerous as a martyr.”

  “Meanwhile at Camp David or Air Force One or wherever the President is, we’re ready to do what?” Emily inquired.

  “Blow hot air up bin Laden’s arse,” came the response.

  “I’m sorry gentlemen, I don’t know what you want from me!”

  Yassir Shallal took over. “Mina, thirty years ago, you had contacts, even friends with some of the most wanted terrorists in the world. Many of them are still alive, fresh out of jail, some even respectable. Others are even more interesting to us. Do what you do best. Talk to them. Find out what going on outside the circle. Get their opinions. Ultimately we’ll find someone to penetrate inside the circle when the time is right.“

  “We need old fashioned low-tech intelligence from people who know the environment. We know you still work in that neck of the woods. We follow your progress, old girl,” interjected Wallace-Terry. “All that ‘International Women protect their sisters in Afghanistan’ malarkey. Do you think it goes unnoticed on either side? Al-Qaeda has cells here too, you know.”

  “Al-Qaeda has never been thought of as a conventional enemy in real terms,” Emily’s voice was rising. “I’ve been saying this for years. This man is thought of as a God. He lives in caves, for Christ’s sake, somewhere on a mountain range in Afghanistan surrounded by militant jackasses who hate women. They still go to war on horseback there.” She downed her scotch in one gulp. “This is about tribal fealty. It isn’t conventional. You’re not listening! To the average family in Pakistan or Afghanistan, he’s the redeemer. He doesn’t give orders, he just plants seeds of revolution. I can’t go there and yodel a message for fuck’s sake. This isn’t the Swiss Alps!”

  “Quiet down Amina,” said Yassir Shallal, becoming somewhat embarrassed as heads began to turn.

  “It’s not Amina anymore, Shallal, as you very well know. My name is Emily Cowan.”

  “And to me, you will always be Amina Desai. In case you have forgotten, that is how you started out.”

  “Started out? Tony Shallal, I am fully cognizant of how I started out. I am also aware that you dropped me into a barrel of shit each time I did anything for any of you. In case you have forgotten, that’s why I came here and for your information, I live with the consequences of my actions every single day, which is more than you do! Are we clear on that point Mr. James fucking Bond?” she concluded, picking up the check as she left.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It is said that some twelve hundred years before the birth of Jesus, the Hebrews settled in Palestine. Historical evidence shows that from 70 A.D. when the Second Temple was destroyed, the Jewish Diaspora continued until about 700 A.D.. Palestine as we know it was under the control and jurisdiction of the Roman Empire. After the fall of the Roman Empire, the Ismaelites settled the area and remained until 1516 when the Ottoman Turks gained control of the region and subjugated the Arab population.

  By the 1880s, the Ottoman Empire was in chaos. Its long-standing control waned as territories bordering Persia were subjected to attacks from nationalistic, tribal and familial factions. Waiting in the wings were Britain,
France, Germany and Russia, each ready to intervene with military force in order to gain control over the spoils of the declining Ottoman Empire.

  For twenty years, beginning in 1896, as social unrest struck Eastern Europe, thousands of Jews left their European and Russian communities, fueled by a longing for what they saw as their ancestral homeland. In this social turmoil the political movement of Zionism was born. The first Zionist Congress convened in Switzerland in 1897. Some Zionists favored an immediate return to Palestine. Others, weary of the never-ending Diaspora wished to settle in Argentina and England. Many European Jews found their way to America. However, the desire for a Jewish homeland remained strong. And so it was that the saying, “To Next Year in Jerusalem”, became a symbol of hope.

  By the end of 1906, Palestine was declared to be the ancestral home of the Jewish people. Unfortunately, the Arabs who had lived there since 700 A.D were not given the opportunity to object to that declaration as increasing numbers of European Jews immigrated to the region. Objecting would have been forbidden by their Islamic faith, as up until this time Arab and Jew, recognizing the commonality of all nomadic peoples shared the bread or manna of life and lived in peace.

  With the outbreak of World War I in 1914, Palestine became the ultimate bargaining chip and the history of the region was forever changed. When the Turks aligned themselves to Germany in World War I, it was in the best interests of both Britain and France to turn the tide against them by encouraging Arab hostilities. They offered to support self-government as a reward. At the same time, European armies engaged in what history would refer to as “The Great War”. British and French governments unofficially waged war against Arab and Jew, utilizing the Roman strategy of “divide and conquer” and promising both sides home rule. Cooperation and financial support from Jewish immigrants worldwide, particularly those in wealthy neighborhoods in America, also assured the U.S. support of Britain and France.