by James Ward
Morgan and Steck parted that evening at the Langley parking area. “I figure we’ve got a couple of days at best to nail this thing,” said Ryall as he looked Steck in the eye. “You know what it will mean for the agency if this Roche thing gets out of hand.” He worried that it already was. “Roche is the key. You have to get him alive, and quickly. Bring him to the old Oceana Naval base and lock him down. I’ll have an interrogation team waiting there for you. I’ll be there myself tomorrow night.”
“I can’t get anywhere with some FBI goon riding herd on me,” complained Steck.
“Use the FBI’s quick reaction resources to your advantage, Bob. I don’t have time to give you the details of their operational posture on this, but you’ll learn when you get to Charlottesville.” Morgan’s tone was serious, eyes narrow, ruddy face tense. “I’ll see you tomorrow night at Oceana.”
Steck jogged inside to his office, called his wife, used the shower and changed his clothes. Black leather flight jacket, golf shirt, jeans and Reeboks would serve better than the Brooks Brothers suit, silk tie and British Walkers donned at home this morning. Packing his leather sport bag with electronics, his Mauser and ammo, Steck made a few quick internal calls and left some secure email for his secretary. Leaving his BMW in the garage, he signed out an agency car and ten thousand in cash. Next stop would be in Charlottesville where he would meet and brief an FBI team that was already waiting for him.
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Ralph Baker poured coffee from a fresh pot he had just brewed in his farmhouse kitchen near Coeur d’Alene Idaho. The stuff tasted good as he took a big gulp, washing away the sleep from his body. It was still dark outside, three am.
Ralph was a veteran of the first Gulf war and had been decorated for valor after saving some soldiers from a burning building set fire by SCUD missile fragments in Saudi Arabia. One of those he had saved that night was his brother, Ricky. Years later, when Ricky died of “gulf sickness” after having been ignored by the US government and denied medical help from the Veteran’s Administration, Ralph sought out the company of others who believed their government had done them wrong. Today’s would be his eighth “secret errand” for Colonel Randy since associating with the militia group Free Nation three years ago. It was a struggle for Ralph to keep up the mortgage payments on the family farm and to maintain his wife and four children. He made good use of the thousand dollars he was paid for each “errand.”
Ralph had sent his wife and children to Boise the day before. Visiting her parents for a few days was the only real break Ralph’s wife ever got from the farm chores. There was no need to worry her with knowledge of what he did for the militia. She didn’t even know he was involved with them.
The usual errand would be to pick up a package in Canada, where he went often in his work as a John Deere salesman. His frequent trips through the Porthill border station had given Ralph the opportunity to befriend the customs and immigration officers. One of the US immigration guys, Rob Carstair, had relatives in Coeur d’Alene. The friendship had extended so that Rob brought his wife and children to visit the Bakers once in awhile. Ralph knew Rob’s shifts, and so knew what times to cross when he had a package for Free Nation among the sales files and give-away toy tractors piled in the back of his Explorer.
This time he would carry a package in the other direction, to Canada where he would meet one of Colonel Randy’s friends for the drop in Creston, British Colombia. This was more risky. Even though he went to Canada often enough to be familiar, Ralph did not have any well-established personal relationships on the Canadian side.
Ralph spent the next hour rushing through his morning chores. He had just finished feeding the dairy cows in his main barn when lights from a vehicle traveling up the farm’s long driveway flashed through the barn window.
“Hey Baker,” shouted Brandt, leaving the Suburban and striding toward Baker. “Got any Java?”
Baker didn’t like Brandt, with his strident manner and intense attitude. Those steely eyes and that big scar on Brandt’s face sent chills down Ralph’s spine. “Sure, Brandt, there’s a pot in the kitchen.”
The two men drank Baker’s now stale coffee at the farm kitchen table while Brandt went over the details of the drop to be accomplished at The Kootenay Hotel in Creston, British Columbia. Brandt poured himself another cup, gulping the contents, then helped himself to large white foam cup from a stack on the kitchen counter and poured another one. “For my passenger,” he mumbled, picking up a lid and snapping it into place.
Baker seemed surprised, peering out the window expecting to see someone in the Suburban. No sign of anyone.
Outside, as Baker and Brandt wrestled the small crate from the Suburban to the Explorer, Baker saw the girl suddenly rise from sleep to a bolt-upright position in the back seat. She seemed in a fog, looking about in bewilderment. “One for the road,” chuckled Brandt, making a gesture toward the girl.
Baker half-smiled, then finished heaping small boxes and files to make the crate look as if it belonged there. He recited his orders for Brandt again “The drop will be tomorrow morning at eight-thirty in the Kootenay Hotel. I’ll meet the man in the coffee shop. He will be carrying a yellow notebook.”
Brandt nodded. “Just be sure you’re there,” he instructed. If you don’t show by nine, the contact will leave.” He focused his steel blue eyes on Baker’s face. “If you bring this crate back, Colonel Randy will not be pleased.” Brandt flipped an envelope onto the dashboard of the Explorer. “There’s a thousand in there. There will be another thousand when the mission is completed.”
Baker wondered why this run was considered worth twice the usual amount, but thought better of asking.
Brandt got behind the wheel of the Suburban. He spoke softly to the girl, who nodded, slipped out the back door and into the front passenger seat. She took the coffee and settled back, sipping slowly. Neither one looked at Baker as Brandt sped off down the dusty driveway.
Half an hour later, the Suburban was parked at the rear of the La Quinta Inn, just off the junction of I-90 and state route 95. Brandt and the girl were having the rest of breakfast in their room.
Toward noon, Baker packed his overnight bag in the back seat of the Explorer, stuffed a sandwich and some Cokes in the center console, and started the hundred and fifty mile drive to Creston. His plan was to cross the border during Rob Carstair’s three to eleven pm shift at the US border station, then on to Creston for the overnight.
__________
Steck walked stiffly from his car to the front door of a small middle-class house in Charlottesville. Although his fifty-five year old frame was fit and muscular, the years showed when he drove long hours without getting out of the car to stretch.
Inside, Steck shared what he knew with the three FBI agents he found there. They responded with all the information they had from the Mount Pleasant Police plus a bit from their own investigation, barely underway. Steck learned three new pieces of information. First, that there was a second murder victim, a Navy security guard at the warehouse. Second, the FBI had several agents on the ground, combing through every neighborhood in the Mount Pleasant and Charleston areas, seeking clues to either the murders or the robbery. Third, the team had been tracking Roche for months because of links uncovered between his shop in Norfolk and a suspicious trading company in the UAE.
The chief investigator for the FBI was Morton Lindsley, a thirty-year career man who had accumulated many honors over the years for his ability to solve complex cases quickly and quietly. A tall man with angular features and a perpetual suntan, he spoke in the slow and easy lingo of a southern gentleman. The other two attending this briefing were young FBI case officers. Susan Deet was the kind of woman feared by most men. Her speech was quick and succinct, rattling off facts and slicing arguments to pieces with a shrill voice that gave expression to a mind like a steel trap. Steck heard New York in her accent. Not pretty but attractive, she had close cut dirty blonde hair, athletic figure and butch clothe
s. Her hands were way too big for the rest of her. He judged her to be twenty-eight or so. The other was a pale kid just out of college with nondescript features, a typical white male nobody in jeans and a tee. He looked a bit puny. He was the kind who could easily vanish in a room with three people in it. He didn’t say much, but what he offered was thoughtful. It was clear he idolized Lindsley who seemed to regard the lad with benign tolerance. Steck was to learn that this young man, Greg Liss, had graduated first in his class at Dartmouth and had scored higher than anyone ever on the FBI screening tests. Steck decided to reserve judgment until he had a chance to work with this trio. One thing was sure. They were ready to do anything to avenge their fallen brother and team member Grayson.
In two hours of intense briefing Steck gave them all he knew about Paul Roche and they told him about Grayson. The more he heard the more anxious Steck became.
Grayson had been part of a secret terrorist tracking group set up by the FBI after 911, called JUMP. This was one of several units that the government had mandated to go after the terrorists. The team had been successful in thwarting eight different terrorist attacks upon the United States and three upon the president. So secret was their work that the public, especially the media knew nothing of their existence, never mind their accomplishments. The team had every possible resource at their disposal: Secret Service, FBI, NSA, CIA, Department of Homeland Security and The Pentagon. They were housed at the Office of Naval Intelligence, with direct contact to a key member of the White House staff.
The JUMP team consisted of Lindsley, Deet, Liss, six other agents, a small clerical staff and for the moment Bob Steck. Increased traffic on communications lines that included suspected terrorists, the UAE trading company, Paul Roche and a shadowy man whose name might be Blake had prompted Lindsley to assign Grayson to tail Roche.
Steck had tried his best not to show his gut reaction to the mention of Blake’s name. He wanted to hear more before getting that deep into this. The old master Lindsley caught it, also deciding not to go further until he needed to.
They decided to head straight to Norfolk. They would try to take Roche before dawn.
CHAPTER 5
Paul Roche returned to Mount Pleasant the day after the storm, to check on the investigation into Grayson’s murder. He wanted to know whether to disappear or return to life in Norfolk running his shop.
As he drove up to the The Gold Bug Bread ‘n Breakfast he became convinced that disappearance was the best move. The place was crawling with cops. Roche was surprised that the FBI had not yet called the locals off the case. He figured that might give him a day or so to make his next moves. He hoped the reason Grayson had been tailing him was personal. That way, the FBI would be late arriving at his door. He sped off toward Virginia.
Roche arrived at his modest house in Norfolk just off Indian River Road at midnight. Though dog tired from the drive, he quickly packed some things into the trunk of the Buick, took extra cartridge clips and ammo for his Beretta and started the short drive to Hampton Roads Airport, where a charter plane piloted by an old friend was waiting. As he came to the intersection at Military Highway, two vehicles caught his eye. One was a plain Ford Victoria with the look of an unmarked police car. The other was a black Suburban with some white numbers on the bumper, definitely FBI. Bold as ever, Roche circled and tailed them. His nerves tightened when he saw that Bob Steck was driving the Ford. Steck’s involvement in this meant the feds were much too hot on his trail. He knew he now had none of the head start he needed. Turning the Buick at a crossover, he raised his friend the charter pilot on his cell phone and advised him to have the plane warmed up for immediate take-off. Twenty-five minutes later, while the JUMP team rifled through his home and his shop, Roche took off from Hampton Roads Airport for a destination he had yet to figure out.
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Mohammed Al Kafajy and some of his retinue sat at lunch in a private dining area just off the lobby of the Hotel des Chaumes near the Champs Elysee in Paris. He was a distinguished looking man of about sixty-five, with chiseled dark features and dark, deep set Middle Eastern eyes. His hair and beard were grey, his head topped with a traditional Arab Keffiya headdress. His six-foot frame was portly but solid. Light gray silk designer suit, Bally shoes and belt, and an Italian silk tie completed the look. His puffy right hand sported a bold diamond ring with a center stone as big as a sugar cube. A matching ring with rubies adorned his left hand. He had the air of a Saudi Prince rather than a merchant from the Emirates.
Lunch with “the boss” was usually a three-hour affair, partly business and partly pleasure. Al Kafajy’s family was usually close by, his wife and five children sitting near daddy. The rest of the dozen or so guests were there to have an “audience” about one or another business deal. Shrewd as they come, Al Kafajy had built a trading empire that spanned the globe. He was worth more than a billion dollars.
Chris Taylor always felt somewhat inadequate at these extravaganzas. He sometimes stammered when addressed by the intimidating Al Kafajy and he hated himself for it. But his record of performance and his loyalty had earned him a place of ultimate trust with the boss. Accordingly, he sat high in the pecking order at table between Missus Al Kafajy and one of the children, a snooty little twelve-year old brat named Basil.
At three fifteen pm Al Kafajy dismissed most of the diners, including the family. Some minor business matters were disposed. Then all but Chris cleared out. The boss took an apple from a big bowl of fruit and pushed the bowl toward Chris. “So, how is our most interesting “import” moving along, Christian?” Al Kafajy seemed to take some bizarre pleasure in calling Chris by his full first name. He sometimes wondered how his mother, a Christian Arab, had allowed it. She must have known that Chris would be the target of jokes among Arab family and friends.
“Quite well, sir. The goods themselves are on their way to Canada to our Vancouver office for trans-shipment to Dubai.” Chris was still unsure of what the boss would do with his newly acquired trinkets. He had been told by Al Kafajy himself that there was something of great religious significance involved.
“But have they left the United States?” Al Kafajy produced a razor sharp knife with a jeweled pearl handle from inside his vest. He began casually peeling the apple.
“I should have confirmation early tomorrow that they are safely in Canada.” Chris was sure that his voice sounded uncertain of that. The boss either didn’t notice or ignored it. “Will I be delivering the goods to you personally?” he asked, selecting an apple for himself.
“No, no, no,” the boss answered. “I give thanks to Allah for all things, but I am first a merchant and a trader. There is much money to be made in the sale of our prize.”
“I see,” Chris said. He didn’t, really.
“I’ll feel much better when it arrives in Dubai,” Al Kafajy mused. “Your success in this endeavor will get you a very big promotion,” he said. Stabbing a piece of apple and waving it in the air he added, “Ah, Christian, what a beautiful auction we are going to have!”
_________
Ralph Baker pulled-in to the parking lot behind the US border station at Porthill, Idaho at four pm. He had made routine sales calls at Sandpoint and Bonners Ferry along the way, just in case there was anybody watching. Make it appear to be business as usual.
Ralph ambled in to the employee’s lunch area through the back door of the border station. He was greeted by one of the Customs agents on break. He recognized him as Rob Carstairs’ friend. “Mister Baker, isn’t it?”
“That’s me,” Ralph replied with a smile and a handshake. “How’re you doing today?”
“Oh, I’m just great, but I’d rather be hunting in such great weather,” the agent replied. “Have a seat and help yourself to some of our lousy coffee. Carstairs will be taking his break in about fifteen minutes. I’ll let him know you’re here.” The man took a long sip of coffee and a bite of sandwich, then produced a key on a chain from his pocket and passed through a steel sec
urity door to the front part of the station.
Ralph had just poured his second cup when his old friend joined him for cordial conversation. “So, where are you headed this time, Ralph?”
“Just the usual business stop at Jerry’s Tractor Depot, up in Creston,” replied Ralph. “He sells a lot of John Deere product. I’ll head back home tomorrow.”
The two men exchanged jokes and family greetings, then Ralph said goodbye and drove the short distance to the Canadian side. Ralph cursed under his breath, as he was stopped by an agent that he didn’t recognize. Most of the agents knew Ralph and just waved him through. This one was new, so he might be a problem. Quickly, Ralph hit a pre-entered number on his cell phone and rolled down his window. The agent checked Ralph’s papers, then he mumbled, “Wait here a minute, sir,” and stepped in to the gate kiosk to pull up Ralph’s information on his computer. Knowing the drill, Ralph figured the next step would be a routine search of the car. Bad luck to get a rookie agent, he thought.
Ralph had a plan for such an event. He pushed the send button as the agent made his way to Ralph’s driver’s door window. “I see that you cross here often, Mister Baker. Is this a business trip?”
Ralph said into the phone, “Hold on a minute,” and looked up to meet the agent’s eyes trying not to seem anxious. He pressed the speaker button. “Yes, sir,” he replied. “I go through here a couple of times a month. I don’t remember you, though. Are you new here?”
The agent paused as if catching something suspicious in Ralph’s tone of voice. “Yes, I’m new. What do you have in the back?” he asked with a gesture to the rear of the Explorer.
“Just my sales literature and toy tractor giveaways,” said Ralph carefully. “It’s all on the papers. Look, I’m late for a meeting in Creston. Could we do this the next time, perhaps?”