by James Ward
Now the deal had progressed to the prepayment stage. Rashid had just confirmed that the down payment, fifty thousand dinari had been transferred to his wife’s account. He was taking a chance, but it was worth the opportunity to earn ten times that amount if the information pleased the right people.
Rashid pulled up the collar of his overcoat, shielding his neck from the chill of the evening. He arrived at the appointed place and was met by two men he had never seen before. They exchanged a pre-arranged greeting and ducked into a small commercial building.
Two hours later Rashid was dead and six Saudi security agents in plain clothes were on their way to Ashgabat, Turkmenistan. There they would meet a member of the Royal family that was preparing to leave in all haste to join them. He would have the full negotiating authority to gain the prize. Their orders were clear. Regain possession of The Hand of Mohammed at all cost. Rashid had become the victim of the rest of the story.
The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia held the highest prestige among Islamic countries, simply because it contained Mecca, the birthplace of Mohammed and the holiest place in Islam as well as Medina, the second most holy place. It had actually been the repository of The Hand of Mohammed for hundreds of years until a safer place had to be found during the bitter war fought in 1818. During that war the Ottoman Turks occupied most of the country and cruelly put the leader, Abdullah bin Saud to death. The hand was lost to history for almost two hundred years. No one knew it had fallen into the hands of the Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein. Now the opportunity to regain it had come. For the sake of Saudi stature in the Islamic world, the security detail was told it simply must be found and brought “home.”
CHAPTER 32
Steck took the opportunity to call his wife during his stopover in Istanbul. “Amy, I’m going into central Asia for a few days. I’ll probably be out of touch, so don’t worry if you don’t hear from me. I should be back in Amman in about a week.”
“Central Asia? Doesn’t that include Afghanistan? Bob, are you going to Afghanistan?” She sounded worried.
He was not going to lie to her. “It’s only a stopover in western Afghanistan, far away from the fighting. There is nothing to worry about.”
“I always worry Bob, you know that. So is it Kyrgyzstan?”
“I can’t tell you.” He said simply.
“Take care of the farm and the horses, and take care of yourself. I’ll be home soon.” Bob felt lonely for Amy and for home.
“I feel lonely for you,” she said softly.
“I know, so do I. Let’s plan to have a few days in Florida when I return.”
“Whatever you want, my love,” she said thickly. “Take care and God bless.”
She clicked off hoping the angst in her voice didn’t upset him. He was grateful to have someone to worry about him.
A young Air Force officer approached him. “Are you Mister Steck?” the man asked.
“Yes, I am. Pleased to meet you lieutenant……?”
“Crutchley, sir, 101st Airborne. We need to get going, sir, it’s a long way to Incirlik from here.”
Bob followed the Lieutenant to the curb. They pulled away and headed for a heliport outside Istanbul. Within hours he was aboard a C-131 headed for Masr E Sharif and the next phase of Operation Retrieve.
________
Greg Liss was back to work. It still hurt to sit for more than twenty minutes at a time, but he was glad to be back at JUMP team headquarters and contributing again.
His task for the team was to follow up with Doctor Wigglesworth and get as much further information as possible. Reaching Wigglesworth at the Dartmounth campus by phone, he first offered his condolences over Nancy Kinnear’s death. Greg could not share the details about the activities of the past week without violating security. He was able to tell the professor that the object was still in circulation. As the conversation went on, Wigglesworth asked if the Saudis had tried to take possession of The Hand of Mohammed yet.
“Why the Saudis?” asked Greg.
“Because if anybody has a legitimate claim to it, they do,” the professor replied. He went on to explain the disappearance of The Hand in the early nineteenth century and that the Saudis felt like it belonged rightfully to them.
Greg received a promise of continued cooperation from Doctor Wigglesworth in return for the opportunity to see and handle the object after it had been secured by the U.S. Government.
At the daily meeting a few hours later, Greg presented the new information about the Saudis. Agents on the ground in Saudi-Arabia were notified and tasked with follow-up to see of there was any overt operation in progress by the Saudis to obtain The Hand Of Mohammed.
Greg asked if he could go to Saudi Arabia and take charge of the effort there. Lindsley returned a quizzical look. “Greg, we need you to manage Doctor Wigglesworth. I believe he’ll be more important to us as this thing develops. Surely you understand that, don’t you?” As he said this, Lindsley shot a look at Ryall Morgan that said “Don’t worry, I’ll handle this kid. He’s worth having even if he asserts himself in immature ways.”
Morgan smiled and looked away.
________
Ajir flew from Teheran to a small airstrip just outside Landi Kotal, thirty miles east of Peshawar, Pakistan. The pilot’s instructions were to land west to east on a runway marked out for him by Ajir’s host.
When the pilot flew in from the west he saw a dirt runway that had been marked out in the sand scrub by parking many pickup trucks in a parallel corridor. There were no lights and no buildings; just the pickups and what appeared to be tribesmen lining the landing area. He made a pass over the area then sent the co-pilot back to ask Ajir if this was for real. Ajir said it was okay to land.
The pilot objected. If he landed there, the aircraft might be damaged in the process. Furthermore, he saw no apparent means to re-fuel and worried that he would not be able to take-off again. He requested that Ajir consider flying in to Islamabad in accordance with his original flight plan filed in Teheran then hiring a helicopter to go back to Landi Kotal. He was also well aware that this aircraft’s presence in Pakistani airspace was well known not only to the Pakistanis but also the U.S. led coalition forces in Afghanistan just miles away. Surely they had showed up on the American radars. He figured they had only minutes or hours before the Americans would try to locate them.
Ajir respected the pilot, but he had been given a thirty minute window to land. After that, any plane that approached the area would be counted an enemy and would be shot down.
“I take responsibility for the airplane,” he announced to the pilot. “Please land now on the runway they have marked off and follow your instructions exactly.”
The pilot obeyed. He made a second approach from the west and put the Falcon down onto the makeshift runway. The big plane rattled and bumped its way to a stop towards the end of the runway. The pilot shut down his engines right away, hoping they had not ingested too much dust.
Ajir stepped down from the front door of the Falcon. He was met at the foot of the stairs by several armed men who directed him to a white Toyota Land Cruiser parked by the edge of the runway. As he slid into the back seat of the vehicle, he was greeted by a slight built man with a sidearm in his hand. They exchanged the customary Muslim greeting. The man apologized for the rough runway, mumbling something about security. On a walkie-talkie, the man ordered that the jet be refueled. Two pickup trucks carrying tanks of JP fuel and small pumps driven off their drive train moved to the aircraft. With the help of the crew, they topped off the tanks. Then the aircraft was surrounded by armed militia. Ajir’s host declared that the airplane would be guarded against any trouble while they conducted the appointed meeting. He then handed Ajir a blindfold. “Please put this on for your safety,” he said in a quiet voice. Ajir obeyed. He knew that there would be such actions to endure on this trip, but still felt uneasy as the Toyota rumbled away.
Thirty minutes and many jostling miles later, the truck stopped abruptly. Ajir
was led, still blindfolded into a large tent. There was the smell of sweat and wool and of tea brewing. After the flap had been secured, the blindfold was removed from his head. Several men with AK-47 assault rifles stood around the perimeter of the tent. Three men in traditional Lungee turbans and wool cloaks sat in a row in the middle of the tent. The man in the middle rose and greeted Ajir in Pashtun. Ajir returned the greeting in very broken Pashtun. The man smiled. He gestured to the two elder men who sat on either side of him then smiled and expanded the greeting in perfect Farsi. He was of medium build, with weathered looking hands and face. Above his bushy black beard, his eyes were hidden behind aviator type sunglasses.
“You are most welcome among us, Mister Ajir,” the man said maintaining the Persian Farsi language. He indicated a large cushion lying on a large Tajik rug. “Please have a seat.”
Ajir’s host was the man known as Abu Daimb, third from the top in power of the Taliban. His outward demeanor was that of a well educated and genteel man. Ajir knew him by reputation as one who could be very unpleasant if he did not get his way.
Abu Daimb then dismissed the armed men, who filed dutifully outside. Ajir imagined they had taken up positions around the tent. Now there remained three Taliban. The identity of the other two was not offered.
After several rounds of tea and snacks, they got down to business. Ajir explained the provenance of the object that was for sale and gave the terms as already accepted by the other two bidders. He produced a photo that was passed around to “Oohs” and “Ahhhh’s” from the men in the tent. They obviously knew the legend of The Hand.
“And who are these two bidders?” Abu Daimb said looking down at the rug. He wanted to know who his competition would be.
“They are worthy Muslim men.” Ajir replied. Then he added, “I feel that for the sake of fairness, this should be a matter of confidence until the showing and sale of the object. Of course, neither will I reveal to them that you are one of the interested parties until the sale.”
“I must know who they are,” Declared Abu Daimb still speaking in a low voice, almost a whisper. “I cannot present this discussion to my friends or go forward in any way until I do.”
Ajir sat in silence for a few moments, his face and his demeanor serene. Then he said “I cannot do that. Perhaps it is better for me to leave now.”
Abu Daimb fixed his gaze on Ajir. “You are my guest, Ajir and I feel responsible for your safety. You will leave only when I decide you should leave.”
A chill ran through Ajir. Had he come all this way just to die here in the wastes of Peshawar? Was this just a test to see if he would betray the confidence of the other bidders?
Ajir sorted these thoughts in his mind while showing no outward emotion. His gaze remained frozen on Abu Daimb’s sunglasses. Finally, he spoke softly and deliberately.
“Your hospitality is most appreciated and your concern for my safety is certainly re-assuring,” he said. Then shifting his gaze to each of the three, he continued. “It is unfortunate that you pay homage neither to the Prophet nor by inference to Allah by imposing your will against his.”
The two elder men appeared shocked by this. Abu Daimb removed his glasses, revealing deep set angry brown eyes. “You fail to see your position, Sir,” declared Abu Daimb, his voice rising.
“You fail to see your own,” shot Ajir. “I am the one who possesses The Hand of Mohammed. As you are well aware, he who is the custodian of the Prophet’s hand is accorded free passage anywhere in Islam. If you detain me, you violate this sacred tradition and as a consequence your whole cause will perish.” Ajir studied their faces. When Ajir was sure his statement had sunk in, he added. “I cannot in conscience offer The Hand of Mohammed to those who neither honor his name nor obey his wishes.”
The two elders seemed very troubled by Ajir’s assertion.
“Abu Daimb,” said Ajir raising his voice to the level of his adversary. “I will ask you one last time. Do you wish to be granted the opportunity to participate, or shall I inform the others that there will only be two prospective buyers?”
Abu Daimb was shaken. “I will speak with my friends.” he said tersely. The three left the tent. Ajir remained seated on his cushion, eyes straight ahead, showing no emotion. He knew that eyes would be watching. Inwardly, he thought that he had either just sealed his fate or made the deal.
Ajir could hear animated discussion in Pashtun some distance from the tent but could not make out what they said. Then he heard the squawk of radio communications that lasted quite a while. At length, the three men returned, taking up their former positions. Abu Daimb had donned a fresh set of sunglasses. These had silver reflective lenses to assure Ajir could not possibly see his eyes.
Abu Daimb sat silently studying the carpet. After a minute one of the elders grunted almost imperceptibly.
The younger man then spoke softly in his studied even voice without raising his head. “Ali bin Akram Ajir, we accept your gracious offer to participate in the upcoming sale. Funds for your requested deposit will be wired to the required account by the end of the banking day today. Now please allow me to personally escort you to your airplane.”
Ajir stood. The others stood. They exchanged manly embraces, invoked the name of Allah and the Prophet and adjourned. No blindfold was produced. They led Ajir back to the Toyota. Abu Daimb settled in to the back seat beside Ajir and commenced a stream of small talk that lasted until they had pulled up beside the airplane.
The pilot was relieved to see them. Before they had even stopped the Toyota, he was revving the engines, ready to leave.
As they made their farewells, Abu Daimb smiled. Looking over Ajir’s shoulder to the doorway of the airplane, he remarked. “You are blessed with modest women.”
Puzzled, Ajir turned to see Dorri in the doorway clad in a birka. Just her eyes showed through the screen of threads that covered the slit above nose level of the garment.
Ajir returned the smile. “She is my niece and she honors my house,” he said.
Once Ajir was on board, the pilot used all the power of the three big engines on the Falcon to roar down the dirt trail of a runway. The plane leaped into the air after the shortest roll Ajir had ever experienced.
Once airborne, everybody seemed relieved. Dorri appeared with Turkish coffee, clad in her usual Persian scarf. As she placed it on Ajir’s desk, he remarked with a chuckle, “Where did you get that birka?”
“My mother prepared me well for the traveling life,” She joked.
On the flight deck, the co-pilot received a call from the ground. “Aircraft over Landi Kotal please identify yourself!” The voice had a Texas accent.
The Co-pilot and Pilot exchanged looks. The Pilot switched on his COMM and replied. “This is Falcon two-eight-six-niner-hotel, enroute from Islamabad to Ashgabat.”
The Texan consulted his flight log for the day to see if the aircraft was authorized to be in his airspace. “Gotcha, two-eight-six-niner-hotel. Please resume and maintain your exact flight plan sir with no further deviation. Otherwise, you will have company.”
“Roger. Coming to heading two-niner-zero,” the pilot snapped. “Have a nice day.”
“Watch those mountaintops y’all,” the ground controller quipped, “Out.”
CHAPTER 33
Roche asked his driver to take him to the President Hotel. It was located on the outskirts of the city, a strange location, he thought for such a mainstream hotel.
The driver dropped him at the front lobby door, and drove to a limo waiting area in sight of the doorman. The hotel was finished in the finest white marble, a showplace, clean and orderly. Curious, Roche inquired about the rates and found them to be actually lower than his at the Sheraton. He guessed that was because the Sheraton is closer to the airport and much more useful to the commercial trade than this modern polished megalith.
Roche noticed a group of Saudis checking in at the main desk. He recognized a few of them as former associates and one of them as a prince. That s
ignaled to him that the Saudis were definitely one of the parties interested in acquiring The Hand of Mohammed. It also told him that he was in the right place. Chris Taylor’s assumption was correct. Negotiations for the sale of The Hand would probably take place here in the President Hotel, and soon.
His contacts Urgabat and Gronakat answered the first ring on their room phone. Presently, they appeared in the lobby, greeting Roche stiffly as “Mister Breen.”
Over tea, Roche studied these two new members of his team carefully. They were certainly products of the KGB. He was worried that they would stand out like a sore thumb anywhere in public. He had to correct himself as he thought about it. After all, these men were Turkmen, while he was the one whose appearance did not fit the local mold.
Gronakat said he was familiar with the Ajir International Trading Company and its location near the airport. He had never been inside the building, but seemed familiar with its main outside features.
Roche described the lock on the elevator and explained that beyond that obstacle there would certainly be at least one unknown security feature. Urgabat seemed very confident that he could break any security code and gain entrance to any building or vault in Turkmenistan without exception. He said that most private vaults in the country were of Russian manufacture. If it was secured, it was only one of two possible types, both easily defeated with tools he already possessed. After a few more minutes of conversation Roche decided these two would do for his purposes.
The three men set a meeting in Roche’s room at the Sheraton later in the day, at four pm. Roche told them that the operation would have to be carried out as soon as practical, even tonight if possible.
Gronakat offered to obtain an official government vehicle, one that would raise no concern running around the city after the eleven pm curfew. He would also arrange for ‘hardware.’