by James Ward
The screen changed to show a graphically stylized scene of the Prophet being taken to heaven then fluttered back to earth, finally focusing on an artist’s conception of The Hand of Mohammed.
The screen went black. After a moment, vague light began to emerge from the center of the screen, revealing a severely out of focus depiction of the actual object. As the picture came into focus, gasps were heard among the audience. Once in focus, Chris queued a slide show of the photos taken earlier in the day. Reaction to each of these exquisite shots ranged from sighs to shouts. The final shot was of the hand laying aside the twenty-four carat gold sack created for it by the Al Kafajy Trading Company.
The screen held the picture of The Hand of Mohammed as the house lights were brought up. Chris then announced the terms of sale. Personal viewing of the object could be arranged over the next week to bidders that were prepared to make a good-faith deposit of one million dollars. Viewing would begin on Saturday, after the Muslim Sabbath and would take place at a local bank vault. Each bidder would have two opportunities to present their offers. After the first round the highest bid, if high enough to be acceptable to the seller, would be the winner. If the first round did not produce a successful transaction, a best and final bid round would ensue. Al Kafajy Trading Company reserved the right to reject all bids if in its sole opinion a satisfactory deal could not be made.
Chris paused then stated “The minimum opening bid level is One Hundred Million Euro dollars.” He was pleased to hear only a few gasps about the opening bid price.
A question and answer period followed. Chris patiently answered every question, no matter how ridiculous.
While this session continued, the young Jordanian who carried the CIA wire lurked surreptitiously amongst the sound-breaking curtains along the side of the auditorium. Charlie West had finally dropped his pad and pencil, relying on the recording devices in his lab to provide material for analysis. Suddenly the sound track ended, preceded by the sound of a scuffle. Behind the curtain, the squat frame of Ahmed stood over the rapidly dying young Jordanian who had fallen to the floor, his throat neatly cut. Ahmed placed his knife back in its scabbard after wiping it on the young man’s shirt. With a frown, he went to fetch the boss.
“I was afraid of that,” Charlie West grunted. “I now have to face the task of informing this man’s wife and child of his untimely demise. Worst part of the job,” he grumbled.
CHAPTER 21
At eleven pm Chris Taylor sipped his third scotch at the bar in the Royal Amman Hotel. The evening had been a grand success. Thirteen prospective buyers had come forth after the presentation indicating that they would provide the one million euro deposit to become bidders for The Hand of Mohammed. The Al Kafajy Trading Company had now covered all its expenses, including the four day all expense paid buyer’s party in Amman.
Muhammed Al Kafajy was so pleased he wrote a check for a hundred thousand to Chris and handed it over as they supervised the break-down of the audio-visual show. Chris accepted it graciously, but was disappointed that the boss had not spoken of the partnership he craved. Maybe that would be his reward for completion of the deal.
The only copy of the video presentation was entrusted to Chris with strict orders from the boss to destroy it. He patted the vest pocket that held both the check and the disk and chatted amiably with the bartender. Maybe a couple of more scotches would be in order. Tamping a cigarette in the ash tray at the bar, he ordered another single-malt then walked to the bank of telephones at the end of the bar. Picking up the house phone, he rang his room. After two rings, Tariq picked up. “Is everything okay, Tariq?” asked Chris.
“All is quiet,” the big man replied.
“Very well, I’ll be there around twelve. Help yourself to the snacks in the mini-bar. The key is under the telephone.” Chris returned to the bar and sipped his drink. He decided he had earned a good drunk. This would be a six scotch night.
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While Taylor sipped scotch at eleven pm in Amman, it was already eight o’clock am at the Free Nation compound in Wyoming.
Randy Pullin had endured a sleepless night. Yesterday he had dispatched a three man detail to the spot where Brandt said he had buried the body of the girl. Their orders were to dig it up and bring it to the compound where it could be safely reburied out of reach of any police that might be looking for it.
Late yesterday the sergeant in charge of the detail sent a message that when they arrived at the place, the body was not there. They found freshly turned soil that had not yet been rained on to tamp it down, evidence that the body had been very recently exhumed. The last rain in the area around Billings, Montana had been two days ago. Pullin had anxiously inquired if there was police crime scene tape at the site. “Negative,” reported the sergeant. That meant that whoever dug up the body was not local police or even FBI. Who ever had the body was an agency that he needed to fear much more than the cops.
The detail had returned to the Free Nation compound late last night. Pullin called a briefing in his office for eight-fifteen a.m. Brandt arrived at eight sharp and was now sitting in the side chair at Colonel Randy’s desk. Pullin paced the floor. He avoided eye contact with his protégé. No use losing his cool before the others arrived. Brandt, whose face had lost its usual high-color, looked like a beaten animal. The silence was difficult to endure for both men.
After the others arrived, Colonel Randy conducted a detailed inquiry into the conditions observed at the site. The men reported that the site was absolutely clean, no footprints, no tire marks, no tools or residue left at the scene. The team had worked in a spiral from the site out to the parking lot and beyond, looking for any shred of evidence that might be useful. Even the trash cans at the parking lot were empty. Returning to the gravesite and sifting the fresh earth, they had discovered one tiny shred of evidence. The sergeant produced a small plastic bag containing a cigarette butt and an empty matchbook. The cigarette was generic. The matchbook was a clue.
Colonel Randy dismissed the team. As soon as he and Brandt were alone, he began to launch into a tirade, but caught himself and paused for a long ten-count. Tirades would not solve this. Action might.
The matchbook was from The Fireside Steakhouse in Ottawa, Canada. As Colonel Randy read the name of the place aloud, Brandt looked up. “Canada?” he said.
“What does that mean to you?” Colonel Randy asked.
“The girl,” Brandt mused. “The girl had a vague Canadian accent.”
“Did she smoke?” Colonel Randy sat and reached for a notepad.
“I don’t think so,” Brandt replied, then after some thought, “no, she definitely did not smoke.”
Pullin scribbled some notes, then sat back in his chair holding the pencil in his hand eraser down, he tapped it on the desk for emphasis as he spoke.
“Here’s what I think.” Pullin’s gaze narrowed, piercing Brandt’s consciousness. “I think the CSIS was investigating Ralph Baker, which led them to you. They detailed the girl to use your passions against you. When you fell for it, she became an inside agent that could gather enough information to close in on our transportation channels. I bet the Canadians had decided not to inform the American security people that they had an agent running around our country until they had enough hard evidence. Then the fracas with Baker made the deal too hot for the girl. She made a desperate play to either take you into custody or get out of there and you won. If I’m right then that matchbook was left by the CSIS team that took her body a couple of days ago.”
Colonel Randy stood up and paced again, going over what he had just said. At length, he smiled as if satisfied he had it figured out. “If I’m right.” He repeated.
Brandt brightened, as if Colonel Randy was now his accomplice instead of his interrogator. “But how did they find the girl’s body?”
“Think about it, man!” Randy was trying to keep his cool. He was exasperated that Brandt’s training was so incomplete. “She had probably reported confirmati
on of the link between Ralph Baker and Free Nation to her authorities from some road stop or motel. All she had to do was give you the slip for a few moments. Then CSIS, figuring that Baker’s death was probably not accidental and now faced with a missing agent, would naturally come looking for her along the obvious routes between Coeur d’Alene, Idaho and this post! A bit of study and a road map would reveal there are only a few spots along the way where quick disposal of evidence could be accomplished.”
Brandt felt awful. It was depressing that his actions were so transparent. “What should I have done?” he asked nearly allowing tears to flow.
“We can’t use the results of ‘could-haves’ or ‘should-haves’ after the fact,” Randy replied.”
Colonel Randy thought for a moment, then added, “What you should have done is return here with the evidence. The lesson is to trust your superior officer, no matter what happens.”
After he had dismissed Brandt, Randy Pullin sat for half-an-hour in silent thought. He wondered how long he had before the Canadians and the Americans would get their heads together. He needed a plan but had no idea what that could be.
_________
Chris Taylor had just ordered his final drink for the night. He stared into the glass, pondering whether his plan to stop the American agents would materialize. Ahmed had reported his encounter with the waiter who was carrying a wire. Chris was upset that Ahmed had dealt with the issue with such a heavy hand. Now the Americans, if that was who was on the other end of the wire, would have cause to double their efforts.
Taylor lit a cigarette. Through smoke filled and scotch-dimmed eyes, he dialed his cell phone. While waiting for the international call to be put through, he chatted briefly with the bartender in an effort to determine how slurred his speech might be. It sounded okay to him.
“Mister Taylor?” the voice was the farmer’s.
“Yes, it’s Taylor. Did you make the arrangement we spoke about?”
“Yes sir, I did.” The farmer replied. “The gentleman should arrive late tomorrow and be ready to work the following morning.”
“That’s fine. I appreciate the rapid response.” Taylor decided to leave it at that, suddenly aware that he had pronounced it reshponsh.”
As Chris Taylor clicked off and reached for his glass of scotch, he became aware of someone sitting next to him at the bar.
“Hello mister Chris.” The voice was that of a man named Ali bin Akram Ajir, a customer. Chris had obtained some armaments for Ajir four years ago, contraband that had been surreptitiously shipped to Iran.
Chris tried to act sober, but knew it wouldn’t work. “Ajir!” he said too loudly, extending his hand. “How have you been, my friend.” Ajir was nobody’s friend.
“Wonderful Mister Chris, I am very well.” Ajir shook Taylor’s hand energetically.
In his scotch fog, Chris motioned as if to buy Ajir a drink. He stopped himself after he spied the teacup in Ajir’s left hand. That’s the trouble with Moslems, Chris thought. You can’t even buy them a drink.
Chris wanted to shake this guy and go to bed. He knew he was at a disadvantage being mostly drunk. Ajir kept up a lively conversation about trivial things for what seemed to Chris to be hours. Finally, after he had finished his drink, Chris stood up to leave. Ajir was still yakking. Chris felt the room go into motion and had to steady himself by holding on to the bar.
After regaining his equilibrium, Chris spied the clock over the bar. It was just midnight. “Too late for me,” Chris said, making far too grand a gesture toward the clock. “Nice to see you, Ajir,” he lied.
Ajir was still talking a streak as Chris Taylor half stumbled across the lobby of the Royal Amman Hotel. “Thank goodness,” Chris thought as he realized that Ajir had returned to the bar rather than following him into the elevator.
Taylor sensed something amiss as he got off the elevator and began navigating the corridor toward his room. The two guards that had been assigned to augment Tariq were not on duty at the door of Chris’ room.
He opened the door to a horrible scene. Tariq lay dead in front of the room safe, blood oozing from a hole in his forehead. The other two men were on the floor of the adjoining room lifeless. They had been shot in the back of the head, execution style. The safe was open and The Hand of Mohammed was gone.
It took Chris Taylor only a few moments to sober up. The adrenaline of terror and fright replaced the fog of drunkenness with clarity of thought. He felt for pulse. All three had none. The blood was still fresh and flowing, so only a few minutes had elapsed after the terrible deed. It could even have happened while he was on the way up in the elevator. Chris ran to the end of the hall, bypassing the elevator and throwing open the door to the stairway. As he entered the landing, he heard scuffling on the stairway towards the lower floors of the hotel. They were still in the building!
Chris opened his cell phone as he bounded down the stairs and punched the key for the main number of the Royal Amman Hotel. He had plunged three floors when the clerk answered. “There has been a robbery and murder! he shouted into the phone. “The robbers are in the east stairwell. Can you lock it down?”
“No, sir” came the reply. “Fire laws prevent us from….”
“Then call security! Call the police.” Chris clicked off, still bounding down the stairwell.
At the fifth floor, Chris paused to listen for sounds. There were none. He resumed his plunge, stepping wildly, taking the stairs two and three at a time. Ignoring the fact that he had no weapon, he burst into the lobby. There was no sign of the robbers. Two security guards rushed toward Chris. One drew a hand gun. Chris flailed his arms in frustration. Finally realizing that the prize was gone he collapsed to the floor.
CHAPTER 22
Paul Roche, alias Hugh Coles, Alias Jacob Breen landed in Amman just after two pm Amman time. He exchanged euros for dinars, collected his baggage and cleared passport control. Collecting his baggage, he took a taxi downtown, stopping at the shop of an acquaintance who supplied him with a paste-on full beard to complement his now nearly grown moustache. From his luggage he produced a Harris Tweed jacket and dark trousers. Satisfied that he looked the part of an émigré British lawyer, he presented himself at the Intercontinental Hotel.
In his room, he telephoned a blind number supplied by the farmer. A man answered, inquiring about the farmer’s health. “He’s fine. I just saw him yesterday.”
The man instructed Roche to get some rest and asked how he should address a package that would be delivered during the evening. The voice said that ‘Mister Breen’ would be contacted in the morning. After the arrangements were made, Roche got some food then went to bed.
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Bob Steck worked into the early morning, preparing a report of what he had learned up until the man carrying the wire was killed. He now knew that Al Kafajy Trading Company was the recipient of the stolen goods. He had heard the presentation that established the provenance of The Hand Of Mohammed. He had heard that the cost just to become a bidder was one million euros. He knew that the presenter’s name was Chris Taylor. Charlie had a team of people working to identify as many of the audience as possible and to get a dossier on Al Kafajy Trading Company and on the man named Chris Taylor. It had been quite a night.
What he didn’t know was who killed their plant and whether the murderer had gained enough information to trace back to the CIA bureau in Amman. He reviewed his report with Charlie then sent it by secure wire to Ryall Morgan at Langley. After sending it, he sat back in his office chair wondering how much of the information he had just learned was already known to Randy Pullin.
Steck poured a cup of coffee and went looking for Gunny Grundstrom.
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Muhammed Al Kafajy was furious when an exhausted Chris Taylor told him that their prize had been stolen. He vowed revenge on everyone. He wept on hearing that Tariq was dead. He derided even Ahmed for killing the young snoop rather than capturing him so they could find out who had sent the man. His r
anting scared his body guard, who in seventeen years of service had never seen the boss lose his cool. When the poor man suggested a sedative, Al Kafajy slapped his face.
At length the boss recovered his composure and paced the room for twenty minutes in silence. Finally walking deliberately to his desk he sat, as if in preparation to issue commands. “Please clear the room, except for Christian,” he said too calmly.
When they were alone, he stared at Chris for a long time with a face curiously devoid of expression. Chris felt like a piece of rubbish. He wished he could disappear into the carpet.
Al Kafajy broke the silence with a small quiet voice. “So, Christian, we have encountered a piece of bad road. Are you still willing to pick up the challenge and complete the journey?”
Chris Taylor sat up straight in his chair. “Of course I am.” He was inwardly proud that the boss had not killed him on the spot. He was also proud that for once he had not stammered at a moment of stress. He cleared his throat and with his best professional tone continued. “Will you have enough confidence to give me free rein?”
“Absolutely,” Al Kafajy replied. The boss really had no alternative. He had always relied on Chris to do the dirty work and the work from here on would be very dirty indeed.
“I have good contacts among those who can help us with acquisitions and with security.” Chris was speaking slowly, forming his thoughts carefully as he went. “However, I am not as well-versed in the world of spies and agents of governments. In last night’s theft, we are dealing with international thieves who may have militia at their disposal. We are also dealing with American agents who are as close as Saudi Arabia, maybe closer.”