Circle Around the Sun

by M. D. Johnson

  Since the meeting with his daughter, Shallal had made discrete inquiries into the lifestyle of Wilfred de Crecy. He had known de Crecy for more than thirty years and had never liked him. He suspected even prior to the fall of communism that de Crecy was a double agent. He had never acted upon his suspicions, as they could not be proven. Given the differences in the cultural heritage and de Crecy’s social status, no one would have believed him. There had been a distinct lull in Soviet Intelligence Operations in the seventies and eighties following the discovery of the Cambridge spy ring of Guy Burgess, Donald McLean, and Kim Philby which operated in the fifties and sixties. The sleeper, Sir Anthony Blunt and their KGB controller, Yuri Modin were not uncovered until much later on. Despite the fact that MI5 had known Blunt was a double agent, they allowed him full immunity because of his royal connections and the scandal that would have followed. Blunt retained his title in exchange for his full cooperation, until feisty Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher renounced the cover-up. Blunt, while informative had not disclosed that there had been a fifth man, the late Rollo de Crecy, whose work continued undiscovered. At the death of de Crecy the elder, his son continued the loyal façade. When the Berlin wall came tumbling down, along with the reverie over the fall of communism, the KGB ceased operation, only to resurface later as a pioneer of economic espionage.

  The theft of science and technology, particularly in the areas of nuclear physics, biotechnology, chemistry and lasers became rampant. The smaller, more clearly defined Russia, top heavy with organized crime, began to export their criminals and import stolen technology. Russian intelligence recruited expert lecturers to go undercover and seek out the disgruntled. There were subcontracted government and private industry employees to exploit, and legions of intelligence experts and diplomats with friends and contacts in all of these fields. It was even possible to not deal with the Russians directly, but to work with espionage agents posing as “friendlies” from other countries. The baton had been passed to Wilfred de Crecy to cultivate such potential victims in industry and commerce who would in turn be introduced to Russian agents gathering intelligence. Shallal had remained vigilant for several years in observation of de Crecy’s contacts, keeping tabs on those within world peace organizations and several human rights groups. Such organizations were overloaded with well-intentioned people, often professionals with advanced degreed and high-tech positions who gave generously of their time and money. Frequently Shallal would watch de Crecy source an organization just days after meeting their executive officers at a charity function.

  Like a lion hunting its quarry, de Crecy would visit corporate headquarters, identify and contact the most discontented employees and continue to keep in touch, eventually convincing them to betray the organization for a greater cause, a developing country or a different ideology. This “false-flagging” was an old established intelligence gathering technique that the Russians had mastered. For de Crecy, it rarely failed, and it was extremely cost effective. Most people willingly talked for hours about their low pay, their responsibilities, outlining their work and the weaknesses of their colleagues. De Crecy, using his knowledge of human behavior, exploited away and as a result he was able to gather first rate intelligence, undiscovered for decades. Wilfred de Crecy’s position in MI6 enabled him to attend social gatherings with the rich and prominent while scouting the field for other intelligence agents who may have been suspicious. It was, as Shallal had discovered, all too perfect.

  De Crecy, like many before him, had what was referred in his trade as an ‘Achilles Heel’. Shallal had learned of it and at one point actually observed the man’s weak spot some years earlier. Wilfred de Crecy, married to an older woman, was also the son of a much older than average mother, and had, for whatever psychological reason, a penchant for very young girls. De Crecy’s preference generally was for females from the age of thirteen to sixteen, always petite, generally appearing younger than their years, preferably East Indian or Eastern European in origin, with small build, long thin legs, sloe-eyed and narrow-hips, budding breasts and absolutely no excess fat. His Russian contacts would provide him with a never-ending supply of Baltic, Uzbek, Tajik, or Afghan orphans willing to do anything to get to the West. When he finished with them, they were paid off and would vanish into the seedier areas of London, Paris, Frankfurt or wherever he was assigned. While they were invariably violated in some manner, they were never be beaten or disfigured and were always exceedingly well-paid. There would be no more than three visits by the same girl, and she would almost always be restored to good physical condition afterwards.

  De Crecy still felt quite sincerely that he had standards. Shallal had located two of these girls and collected statements, arranged for hospital treatment and semen samples to be taken for DNA analysis. Armed with these things he had slowly but surely built a case file against Wilfred de Crecy, and arranged for Catholic charities to, for a nominal fee, take care of the girls and their education thereafter, the only condition being they would give testimony when required.

  But it was through a Soviet counterpart known to both Emily and himself as Dimitri Schulkin that Shallal had found the ‘piece de resistance’, in the form of a reliable lead in the murder many years ago of a ‘gun for hire’ named Verena Stoltz in Holland. Verena, it seemed, had made arrangements for her puppy and cat to be taken care of in her absence. The caregiver was a teacher of Russian origin living near her apartment. The woman, who herself had studied in Moscow’s Patrice Lumumba University held lofty communist ideals and maintained solid party connections. She had, on several occasions acted as a recruiter for Schulkin, proving that she was both reliable and credible. The woman claimed that she pulled up to the house that fatal day and heard shots, many of them. Returning to her car, she had seen a man she knew as Wolfgang Von Roehle, whom she had briefly met through Verena, leaving the building. He had carefully looked left and right as if checking for observers before going on foot to his car, which was parked further down the street. She had checked inside the house, entering through an open door, then made a hasty retreat from the building on discovering Verena’s obliterated body, leaving no sign of entry or exit. She stopped at the nearest phone booth and contacted Schulkin, who had advised her to leave the area. There had been no mention of the body in the newspapers and she had assumed that Schlulkin’s organization had ‘cleaned’ the area. Schulkin divulged the information to Shallal as part of the “exchange of information” after the fall of the Berlin Wall. He wanted to release the information for his own safety, as he was at that point beginning his new career as a consultant to the west. He had been instrumental in his country’s reformation. Dimitri Schulkin also traded information from his Heidelberg-based consultancy, which provided information services to Russian businesses in Europe and to Western businesses wishing to expand their Eastern European market. Shallal rationalized that Dimitri Schulkin had nothing to lose in this, and it was a well known fact that intelligent agents worldwide networked amongst each other when the situation was called for. The intelligence community has always functioned like a fast growing, yet sprawling and ungainly corporation, often without rules of order, while convincing itself that it was both necessary and adherent to a moral code. Shallal firmly believed that the border between intelligence service actions and terrorism was quite vague, and with this in mind, he remembered his daughter’s suggestions.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FORTY-ONE

  Since September 13th, the allied forces commando teams had installed bases in the outskirts of the Pakistani cities of Peshawar and Quetta. Under deep cover the teams had traveled throughout Afghanistan and across the border into Pakistan for the purpose of gathering intelligence, on a mission to stop bin Laden at any cost. Their territory was an area formerly under the control of Afghan rebels. Unknown to most civilians, there was also a top notch military facility assembled in record time in neighboring Uzbekistan, which was now free from Soviet domination and eager to fulfill its role alongside its new allies. C
IA reconnaissance terms were already on the move. Blackhawk MH 60K shuttles, known for their relative invisibility even in inclement weather conditions handled the transportation of elite squads of Special Forces commandos and high tech military equipment from the Uzbek site deep into neighboring Afghanistan. Warplanes were positioned on Pakistani airfields as well as on carriers in the Arabian Sea. Hidden in the mountainous regions of Herat province was the Interrogation Center, where Taliban VIPs were detained. This was the site where physician Mason Desai, also known as Masud Ansari, the son of a relative by marriage to the most wanted man in the world was being held against his will in an effort to capture his father. Mason proved to be effective bait. It took merely two hours for Ghulam Ansari to receive word that his son was being held hostage by the British.

  The Taliban had, by early December fled, under attack by local tribal militia trained and paid for by the Special Forces and CIA paramilitary groups. This anti-Taliban militia, backed by allied air strikes continued to rain blows on what was left of the al-Qaeda fighters. The mostly foreign born jihadists withdrew and headed for higher ground, armed with assault rifles, rocket launchers and mortars, swearing to remain and fight until death. Taliban leader Mullah Omar, whose battered fighters could no longer hold Khandahar now indicated to the allied command that they were ready to turn the city over to the anti-tribal militia. On learning he would not receive amnesty, Mullah Omar vanished out of the city of Khandahar, surrounded by a convoy of motor bikes heading northwest toward Uruzgan, leaving his men to disband and enabling the anti-Taliban militia to gain full control while the U.S. Marines established their base encompassing the airport outside the city.

  Meanwhile and predictably, in Tora Bora the anti-Talibanists continued their relentless pounding of al-Qaeda, who sent word of their intent to surrender. It was believed that members of al-Qaeda, fearing total shame and defeat were also disinclined to fight their brother Muslims, thus a temporary truce was established. Al-Qaeda insiders however would later claim this was a deception, specially designed to enable Osama bin Laden to escape from his headquarters high in the mountain range. By December 12th, heavy fighting began again. This diversion bought the precious time bin Laden needed to flee to another safe harbor. Osama bin Laden had for some years used his cousin as a double. While there was a height difference of several inches between them, their looks were almost identical. The height difference and their hands was what told them apart. Bin Laden’s hands were thin, with long, manicured, tapering fingers. The hands of his cousin were thicker and shorter with crude looking fingers. They were the hands of a worker, not a gentleman. When the cousin was photographed he exercised great wisdom and generally kept his hands covered. In mid-December, the two men had taken different directions, one escaped through the White Mountains to Pakistan while the other fled into eastern Afghanistan to the area of Nangalam which would develop, in a few short years a strong family tie to Osama bin Laden.

  Conversely, Ghulam Ansari took this opportunity travel back to his homeland of Herat, where he knew he would be able to hide with friends of his family until such time as he could infiltrate the camp where his son was imprisoned. He found the beautiful province where he was born and raised devastated by war and occupation. The rose gardens were gone, the beautiful buildings demolished and the home where his parents and grandparents had lived for decades was a structural shell. He had known of several Taliban sympathizers in the area, one family had been employed by his grandfather. Ghulam now desperately sought them out. This was not difficult, as he paid his informants extremely well. The family was found within the hour and took him in without question as their guest. Such was their religion and obligatory custom. He shaved his beard and mustache off completely and cut his hair. His benefactors gave him a dark green Afghan robe and a woolen pakol hat and even fed him, to his great joy, a spicy, lamb pasanda. In return, Ghulam gave them more than six months pay, in the old pre-Taliban standard form of gratitude. Without his beard, even with his old scars, Ghulam looked much younger and was surprised when several people acknowledged him by name. One man, mistaking him for Mason, called him a healer and thanked him profusely for saving his wife. Another commented on how good it felt to be rid of the long beard. No longer fearing reprisal from the Taliban, bare-faced young men were playing soccer in the streets and women were wearing head-scarves and long skirts instead of full burquas. Despite the devastation of the town, there was an aura of happiness. Without the threat of imprisonment, non-religious music could be heard in the stalls of the downtrodden market. Ghulam found himself consumed by the feeling of freedom, his step was lighter and he also experienced a need to rejoice. He asked questions in the market and quite by chance found the stall of the old woman who had helped his son. The market, she said, was full of the story of how the young doctor had run away from the British commando squad only to be taken by them again the next day. Of course, she told him, she knew where they were keeping him. She had a brother in that camp as well. But there was a man, she said, also in his middle years, who was Afghani but spoke the language of the foreigners. She pointed in the direction of a building partially damaged, but holding its own amidst the debris. His name, she told him, was Mustafa.

  Mustafa Jalil was overwhelmed at the sight of this stranger on his doorstep, but he was not as shocked as Ghulam when he laid eyes on his old adversary, Tony Shallal. Several hours later, their mutual dislike was finally overridden by their mutual hatred of the Englishman, Wilfred de Crecy, aided perhaps by several cups of a drink called bhangawa, dispensed by Mustafa in the short-term interest of peace in Afghanistan. He had made the blend himself from milk, almonds, pistachio and hashish.

  “Like old times, is it not?” Ghulam genuinely smiled for the first time in weeks.

  “I understand this is the only thing left to do here,” Mustafa replied.

  “There are reports,” Shallal interjected, “that your son is being held the camp near the airport.”

  “I am going in there tomorrow to act as interpreter for de Crecy. I will see what I can find out,” Mustafa said, greedily downing the bhangawa.

  “Wilfred de Crecy needs an interpreter? He speaks Pashto and Christ knows what else.”

  “Shallal, this is not the campus of Kabul University. The dialect here is like comparing Cajun to the French spoken in Provence. He’s a foreigner and cannot leave anything to chance or mistranslation. I’ll go in and check the place out. If I find him, what do you want me to do?”

  “Give me another drink for a start,” Shallal added, loosening up completely. “OK. Here’s the plan. There’s a woman who’s coming in as part of an official escort for him. She will have all the papers she needs to ensure his release for immediate questioning by the U.S. authorities. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “De Crecy will never give him up.”

  “He will when he sees the signature, and if he doesn’t. I’ll be there as well.”

  “Shallal, I alone can get my son out of danger. I know why he was taken and it is no shame for me to die for my cause. It is what I am destined to do.”

  “We’ll leave you as last resort. You’re too valuable to be misused by a psychopath. So tell me, the great Ghulam Ansari, why did you join bin Laden?”

  “Look around you Shallal. What do you see? A depressed race of people, drugged into oblivion. Their pride is gone, their world is shattered and for a hundred years their land has been passed around in the interests of everyone other than themselves. Bin Laden gave us back our dignity, that is why we will follow him to our death. It is not just in Afghanistan, it all over the Muslim world. He has restored our faith and taught us that to fight is the only path to freedom. I will never betray him.”

  “But at what cost Ansari, at what cost?”

  “You refer, I suppose to this great war on terrorism. It is pure fiction! An assault on the human consciousness. Your country does not want bin Laden. He could never be brought to trial. Who would pay for such a trial? Who would keep him a
live? Death is an honor for him, and if you think it is bad now, imagine if you will what would happen worldwide if he died in your custody. No! He is worth more alive, that way he becomes a mythical figure like your British King Arthur and you get to continue the war. Your corporations get fatter, and above all your military gets its self esteem back after the Viet Nam fiasco.”

  “Let us not forget, Ghulam,” Mustafa finally spoke, “the government gets to rid itself of their poor and their surplus, because that is who joins the military.”

  “But if it goes on too long, Shallal,” Ghulam continued, “If too many soldiers return with the flag draped over their coffins, the Prime Minister and the President will have to answer to the people. Then what happens to Afghanistan?”

  “I’ll tell you both,” Mustafa said in conclusion. “It sinks into the rubble once again, and the United States and Britain go on to bigger ventures with a fatter payout, like Iraq, or maybe the ultimate conquest just a little further down the desert road to Iran. No my friends, Afghanistan will be leveled by all this hostility and ready for those pipelines to go in while the world is diverted by another war. Gentlemen, this isn’t about honor or morality, it’s about money and power. What else is new? Another cup perhaps?” He refilled their empty cups.

  “Oh fuck,” Tony Shallal said lazily, “I’m stoned as shit.”

  “Not me, man,” answered Ghulam Ansari in the English of his youth, “I’m more laid back than I’ve been in years.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FORTY-TWO

  Herat Province Interrogation Centre, Allied Command Headquarters

  Mason Desai had been under interrogation for thirty-six hours. His inquisitors worked in six shifts. He had been allowed, under supervision to use a latrine to relieve himself. He had not showered or been able to exercise other than to walk, accompanied throughout, to the latrine. His food, various cuts of pork, had been specially chosen to violate Islamic principles. An effort that failed miserably, as he had no real aversion to pork. His heritage had been continually insulted, his relationship with his father questioned and he had been accused of every kind of sexual perversion, including a controversial Afghan custom of having a juvenile male lover. They had even attempted to violate what they thought were his conservative religious beliefs by allowing a female soldier to interrogate him while rubbing up against him, undoing the buttons on her uniform to allow him to see her breasts, almost straddling him, ensuring an erection. She fondled him and he laughed at her, saying not only did she look like a Neanderthal but that she was probably crawling with sexually transmittable diseases if this was how she normally behaved towards strangers. She had then touched herself between the legs and removing her fingers which were covered in what looked like menstrual blood, smeared both sides of his face with it. The woman then left the interrogation room as quickly as she had entered.