The Hand of The Prophet (Adventures of a spymaster Book 4)

by James Ward

  “Understood Colonel, I’ll get it.”

  When Colonel Randy returned to the briefing, Saleem was explaining the difference between Sunni and Shiite Muslims.

  “First, Sunnis are in the vast majority in the world. Shiites are generally poorer but extremely zealous. Their fundamental difference in belief is a dispute over succession to the Prophet,” he declared. “Succession and inheritance of position is very important in the world of Islam. If you recall, I told you of the twelve imams and their place in Islamic history. Now the Shia maintain the belief that Ali……”

  As he spoke, the men were each taking notes. Saleem was frequently interrupted with questions, which he patiently took the time to answer. In the end, the men understood that Islamic scholars became world leaders in math, science, philosophy and the arts for many hundreds of years, while European Christians bickered, repressed advances in learning and spent most of their resources killing one another. When the Europeans finally united against Islam, the Muslims gradually lost power and in the long run became ‘second-class’ in the very areas where they had once excelled. The Industrial revolution in the west left Islamic countries even further behind. This, in turn has produced a mentality of underachievement that rankles Muslims. They feel disenfranchised in the modern world, even though they helped to create its knowledge base. Disenfranchised people can easily become terrorists and revolutionaries in their desire to change what they perceive as the oppressive status quo.

  History tells us that such a status quo will only change when an overwhelming majority unites under a single banner. Once united, they can exert massive influence for change in the world. History also shows us that Muslim religious factions, tribal self-interests and nationalism have inhibited the advance of Muslim culture for centuries.

  “Here, gentlemen, is the crux of the present issue. In the short run, The Hand of Mohammed will offer its owner freedom from Islamic law and free passage anywhere in the Islamic world. Imagine what Al Qaeda or any other of the hundreds of terrorist organizations could do with that. In the long run, however, in the right hands this object could become the banner uniting the entire world of Islam into a single force for change that would certainly initiate world conflict. That is why Colonel Randy has used the word ‘Armageddon’ and why this mission is desperately important.”

  _________

  Susan Deet woke at three am, still lying on the floor beside Greg Liss. She slowly focused her thoughts without moving. Greg breathed heavily, still sound asleep. She realized he was not touching her anywhere. It would be a good time to move. Susan quietly got up, found her shoes and jacket and tiptoed out Greg’s front door without waking him. She stealthily got into her Saturn and released the brake. It rolled back, away from the first line of parked cars. After pointing it away from the building, she started the engine and rolled to the frontage road. There, she switched on the headlights and began the rest of her commute.

  Arriving at her place, a small cottage buried in the suburban sprawl around Washington, she made a pot of coffee and settled in to review some emails. No sense trying to sleep now that four am was ringing in, she thought.

  Among the emails was one from Mort Lindsley received about eleven pm. He wanted to talk with her before the scheduled meeting of the JUMP team with MacFergus. That meant she should be at his office no later than seven am. She changed into sweats. Trudging to the spare bedroom which she had turned into a small gym, she worked out vigorously for about half an hour. Sipping the last of her second cup she yawned, stripped and headed for the shower.

  At five fifty am, Susan stepped dripping out of the shower with a big towel wrapped around her body. As a reflex, she suddenly dropped to the floor aware of someone in her front room. Her mind raced, plotting to retrieve her service revolver.

  The front door closed. She gave it a five count. Not hearing any other noises, she leapt up and ran to the window that faced the street. A small car pulled from the curb and fled into the pre-dawn. She double locked the door, cursing that she must have left it unlocked when she arrived. Throwing on all the lights, she took inventory. Nothing was missing, not even the laptop from her desk or the revolver from her bedroom. There was no sign of anything disturbed or out of place.

  Susan stood for several minutes out of breath with her heart pounding, wondering who had just paid her a visit and why.

  At Lindsley’s office, Susan related the events of the previous night to her boss. Lindsley wanted a team to have a look at Susan’s home, dust for prints and look for clues. Susan asked for that to happen after work. She wanted to spend her day with the JUMP team. Lindsley agreed.

  “The reason I wanted to see you, Susie,” Lindsley drawled, “is we got a definite on your man Roche.”

  “Wow, that’s good news.” Susan was upset that she had not found him herself. “So, where is he?”

  “In Mexico, just like you figured. His new identity is as a Brit with a moustache name of Hugh Coles. We decided to take him last night, but he never came home. The caretaker at his house didn’t know where he had gone or when he would return.”

  _________

  Bob Steck sat at Charlie West’s desk, studying blow-ups of several photos printed from the surveillance tape at Anwhar Trading Company.

  First, he had run the tape as a video many times, trying to learn the gait of the man as he had walked calmly to the waiting car. He studied his hands, arm movement, size and posture. Now the blow-up stills gave him more detail of head shape, girth and even a good look at the Beretta he was carrying.

  Slowly thoughts converged on a singular memory from years past. “Damn his hide!” Steck shouted in astonishment to Charlie West. “It’s Paul Roche!”

  CHAPTER 27

  Ajir’s entourage, a small convoy of up-armored jet black Range Rovers and Suburbans rolled to a stop at a small general aviation airport just outside Damascus.

  Ajir emerged from his vehicle in a silk business suit, open white shirt and Bally shoes. Clean shaven, his look was that of a wealthy executive. His fine leather brief case contained a copy of the Financial Times, two cell phones, a small laptop computer and The Hand of Mohammed.

  Flanked by bodyguards, Ajir hustled across the tarmac to his gleaming Falcon 900EX jet. He hung his own jacket in the closet near the aircraft door then had to duck his head slightly, greeting the attendant as he maneuvered his skinny six foot-three frame into the wide red leather swivel chair behind his fine rosewood airborne desk. The floor of the cabin was covered with the finest silk Persian carpet. The sides of the cabin were covered with wool carpet of the same design up to the windows.

  Two of the body guards slipped in behind him and went directly to the rear of the airplane, where there was a small cabin with standard airplane seats for them.

  Settling the brief case beside his desk, Ajir accepted a cup of tea from the attendant, a young Muslim girl in a long dress with head covering. Her face was strictly Persian with dark eyes and hair, full red lips and cappuccino colored skin. She was the daughter of one of Ajir’s cousins, well trained in flight safety, quiet and very discreet, a requirement for success of any employee at Ajir International Trading Company. She stepped briefly into the well equipped galley. Moments later she appeared at Ajir’s desk with a small tray of middle-eastern food. Smiling, she asked if anything else would be needed before take-off.

  Ajir smiled, nodding in the negative. “Thank you Dorri, nothing else at the moment. Please prepare my bed after take-off. I wish to sleep on the way to Mosul.” He sat back and relaxed a bit. He was grateful to have this girl on his staff. Her name in Farsi, the Persian language meant shining star. She was certainly well named, he thought.

  After securing the doors, the pilot rolled the Falcon smoothly to the end of the runway. There was a pause while the co-pilot received the last clearance information to land at a small airport in Turkey, near the town of Mut. This was only about a hundred air miles from Damascus, but a necessary stop. Flights originating from Syria are
not allowed access to Iraq, but from Turkey to northern Iraq could be arranged though complicated. After receiving permission to land at Mut, the pilot applied full power to the three jet engines and the sprightly Falcon took off. During the short flight, the co-pilot kept up constant radio chatter, trying to gain permission for their next leg to Mosul.

  Half an hour later, the jet landed at Mut. Ajir slept while the crew continued the endless trail of paperwork necessary to satisfy the Turks. A few well placed bribes finally secured all the necessary permissions about two hours later.

  Ajir rose from his nap just before take-off. He dressed in street clothes to blend in with the locals in Mosul. Although predominantly peaceful and incredibly prosperous, Mosul could still be a dangerous city in which to be a stranger.

  During the flight, Ajir used a satellite link to speak with a contact in Teheran. Arrangements were made for a business meeting the next day. He would be meeting with representatives of both the religious and governmental leaders. Ajir knew that behind the scenes of that meeting, none other than the supreme leader, the Ayatollah Khomeini himself would be consulted at every point of the negotiation.

  After the meeting in Teheran the final stop on his three stop tour to sell The Hand of Mohammed would be much more complex and difficult to arrange, but could turn out to be the really big score he craved. Within 10 days, he thought, this deal would be over and my new life can begin.

  At Mosul, Ajir was whisked in a B6 armored Suburban to the offices of the local government. On the way, they passed through streets that held more cranes than minarets. Buildings were going up everywhere. Shops brimmed with merchandise. Sidewalk cafes teemed with both locals and foreigners, even some non-military Americans. The place looked more like a prosperous Iranian city than part of a country emerging from years of war.

  At the government offices, he was taken through long corridors to a separate building in the back. The door of this purposely obscure shabby looking building had writing engraved on the glass in Farsi that proclaimed “Dream of Kurdistan, it will come to pass.” Ajir had to repress a chuckle as he read it.

  Generations of Kurds dreamt that one day they would be an independent nation. The problem was that the rest of the countries in the region wouldn’t allow that to happen. The ethnocentric Kurds occupied pieces of many countries including northwestern Iran, northern Iraq, Anatolia which is part of Turkey, regions of Armenia and part of Syria. On the map, you can draw a single boundary that includes all the Kurdish regions. The Kurds have had that map in mind under the name Kurdistan ever since the time of Alexander the Great.

  Ajir regarded the nation of ‘Kurdistan’ as a pipe dream, but knew better than to tell that to any Kurd, unless he placed no value on his life. His own name, Ajir, was a common Kurdish name. He knew he had some Kurdish ancestors in his family, but it meant little to him.

  The present leadership in northern Iraq actually maintained a Kurdish ‘government’ of sorts. They hold great economic power, spend much on maintaining shadow diplomacy around the world and truly believe in a future Kurdish state. They would certainly benefit from being the possessors of The Hand of Mohammed. Ajir was only interested in how much money they were willing to part with to accomplish that desire.

  The man he met with was Asam Talibani, a relative of the most prominent political family in the region. After much ceremony and exchange of courtesy, Ajir informed them that he had the object in a safe place. He showed them a clip taken from a very badly shot video. One of his men had shot it during Taylor’s presentation in Amman. It clearly showed The Hand of Mohammed. The audio was better. The voice was that of Chris Taylor describing the provenance of The Hand.

  Talibani declared that one of his people had attended the meeting in Amman, so what he was shown was nothing new. He demanded to see the object.

  “You will see it,” replied Ajir, “upon deposit of the one million Euro non-refundable bidders’ fee.” He was taking a page out of Al Kafajy’s book. “The advantage for you is that whereas there were to be at least twelve bidders before, I will only allow three.”

  Much haggling followed, but in the end the Kurd agreed to the arrangement. Ajir instructed him to be prepared to come to Ashgabat, Turkmenistan between ten days and two weeks time. There, the final bidders would assemble and the Hand of Mohammed would be sold. In the meantime, the one million Euro deposit would be cleared to a Swiss account of the Ajir International Trading Company, in payment of a bogus invoice for Cotton ostensibly purchased from Turkmenistan.

  Hours later during the flight to Ashgabat and his home office, Ajir reflected on a successful day. He sipped Turkish coffee and chatted amiably with Dorri as she shared a cup of the acrid stuff. The pilot applied extra power as the jet climbed over rugged mountain territory. The big plane behaved more like a commercial airliner than a business jet. He was proud that he could afford the machine, which was the envy of his peers. Its four thousand five hundred mile range and massive power made travel in his part of the world easier, especially its ability to handle high altitude take-offs and landings.

  “One arrangement made, two more to go,” he told himself. Tomorrow would be Iran then a visit to Pakistan and the stage would be set for his final business deal.

  ________

  Rashid the butcher huddled in a doorway, smoking a cigarette and talking with Paul Roche. Taylor stood at the curb, watching for any surveillance he could identify. Taylor strained to hear what the two men were saying, finally deciding to wait for Roche to give him the information.

  Across the street on a door stoop two young girls in school uniforms carrying book bags chatted noisily. Up the street, a delivery truck blocked traffic. Several irate motorists shouted at the driver to no avail.

  The conversation between Rashid and Roche ended. Roche and Chris Taylor went up the street, towards the traffic snarl while Rashid turned the other way, toward his butcher shop.

  Chris Taylor and Paul Roche never saw the camera held by the westerner with chiseled features, bright blue eyes and a big facial scar. “Gotcha.” Brandt quipped as the delivery truck rolled away.

  “See you at school tomorrow!” called one girl as she tucked her tiny button-hole camera into her book bag. The other waved acknowledgement as she strolled away.

  Amman was a city like all the others in the Middle East. Information could be obtained inexpensively and easily as long as one knew the rules of Baksheesh, the time-honored system of bribes.

  Soon, Brandt had wired his photo to Randy Pullin, Charlie West found out that a man named Ali bin Akram Ajir had possession of The Hand of Mohammed, Steck had a photo confirming Roche’s identity and Taylor knew where Ajir had taken The Hand.

  CHAPTER 28

  The JUMP team meeting at Mort Lindsley’s office lasted most of the day. In the end, Robert MacFergus had been totally briefed on the operation thus far and had placed all available resources of the CSIS at the disposal of the JUMP Team.

  This pleased Ryall Morgan greatly. The Canadians enjoyed better relations with many of the Muslim countries in the world than the Americans. They had ears on the ground in places the Americans could not approach. It was agreed that MacFergus would work out of his office in Ottawa, pooling information and planning in a daily secure teleconference with Ryall Morgan and Mort Lindsley. Susan Deet would be in the position of liaison in real time with MacFergus. She would coordinate mutual efforts and be available twenty-four-seven.

  Greg Liss was patched-in via internet protocol for part of the meeting. In spite of the terrible personal burden he carried, he wanted to stay current. He told Lindsley that he would be available for work within three or four days, but his mobility might be a bit hampered. Susan thought that another week would be needed to get Greg’s head back in the game but kept silent about it for the moment.

  At midnight Amman time, six pm in Washington, Bob Steck called in. The meeting became extended in order to hear his report.

  “I’ve got a lot of new information,” Steck
announced. He sounded almost breathless.

  “Go Ahead, Bob.” The voice was Ryall Morgan’s.

  “Some guy named Ali bin Akram Ajir has the object. Our people in Amman can’t find him. They think he’s gone to Syria. Get me all you can on this guy.” Steck knew Morgan and his staff would be all over that.

  “Have a look at this,” Steck announced, holding up the photo of Paul Roche by his PC camera. The room buzzed as the various members of the JUMP team recognized Roche.

  “Roche is running an operation to retrieve the stolen article for Al Kafajy Trading Company. I think his involvement with the caper ended after the heist at Charleston. Now I think he was asked to come back in after the theft in Amman.”

  “Son-of-a-gun,” exclaimed Morgan, now we know why he’s not in Mexico.”

  Steck continued, “I don’t need to tell you folks, especially Ryall that Roche is a good agent and a formidable adversary for any thief.”

  “I’ll give him that,” stated Morgan. “What do you propose to do with this new information, Bob?”

  “I propose to use the resources we have including Charlie’s crew and the soldiers of fortune that got us into and out of Yemen last week to tail him. Of course we will continue our operation in parallel, but I believe Roche will lead us to the objective as quickly or even faster than we can find it alone.”

  “Then what?” asked Mort Lindsley.

  “Then, we take the thing back and go home with it.” Steck knew that was easier said than done.

  “And if you can’t get it back?” Lindsley had a way of posing all the right questions.

  “Then we blow it to smithereens.” Steck knew he was leading guys that did not like to be led.

  “Whoa, Bob,” said Morgan, we will need to get you some input from bigger fish on that.”