by James Ward
“Please don’t worry, Jacob. The doctor who runs this clinic is my brother. There will be no problem, believe me.” Irad spoke softly with a kind of re-assuring tone.
“Okay,” Roche replied, “I trust you, Irad,” He lied.
The doctor showed no emotion, just went to work cleaning up the wound and trying to assess the damage to Roche’s bones. He spoke in Farsi. Irad translated to English. After a couple of hours, images revealed that Roche was lucky. The bullet had chipped the radius bone just above the wrist. There was no sign of the bullet, so it must have skipped out of the wound. The doctor explained that the bone chip was causing most of the pain. Otherwise, the wound was superficial and would heal completely over time. He removed the chip, stitched and dressed the wound and wrapped it tightly with expandable cloth. He fitted a sling and gave Roche some pain killers. Roche offered to pay but the man smiled at his brother and declined.
It was noontime when they left the clinic. Irad stopped the car as the call to prayer blared from minarets all around them. “Just be patient for a while,” counseled Irad, the prayers are mandatory.”
“I’m familiar with this,” replied Roche. “I worked in the middle east for many years.”
After prayers, Irad drove straight to his own home outside the city where the sloping hills rose toward the mountains. His wife had prepared a meal of rice, lamb and Persian flat bread with yogurt, fruits and coffee. After a hearty meal and the medical attention Roche felt much better. He was gradually learning to trust Irad and was grateful for his help.
“You are a lucky man Jacob,” remarked Irad during dinner. “My brother told me that if the bullet had hit just an inch below you would face serious reconstructive surgery.”
Roche nodded but did not feel lucky yet. He would feel lucky when or if he ever got back to Mexico. For now, his plan was to accept the help he could get but always be ready to go it alone if that became necessary.
After dinner, Irad led Roche to a small room at the back of the house. It had two small windows that looked out at the mountains. There was a bed, a chair and a small table. Irad brought Roche’s flight bag and the ABS case containing The Hand of Mohammed, placing them in the room. He collected Roche’s soiled clothes and gave him a robe. He led Roche down a short hallway to a large bathroom. It boasted both Persian and European toilets, a bidet and a shower. Thirty minutes later, Roche was showered, clothed in clean underwear and sound asleep in his room.
At six pm, Irad knocked at the door. “Please get dressed, Jacob,” he said. “Chris Taylor will call us at six-thirty.”
Roche dressed quickly. Before leaving his room, he opened the ABS case to check on its contents. The Hand was whole and undamaged by the trip so far. He carefully replaced the packing material and closed the case.
The conversation with Taylor was short and to the point. He instructed them to take the prize to the Al Kafajy office in Teheran, where it would be placed in safe keeping. He asked Irad to take care of Mister Breen for at least a few weeks. The purpose of this was twofold. First, the trail to Mister Breen would have become quite cold for all those who sought him. Second, the last few miles to Turkey would have to be through the mountains on foot, so Breen would need the use of all his limbs. He would be met by friends who would help him carry the prize to Istanbul, where Taylor would meet him.
With their instructions clear, the two men spent an evening in lively chat about many subjects. They ate and slept. Next morning they set out for Teheran in Irad’s Volvo.
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Ajir spent the morning immersed in salvaging what he could of his company’s headquarters. Whenever there was a break from Insurance business, Police business and concerns about contracts that would have to be shifted to the Mashhad office Ajir was on the phone with his contacts all around the country. His effort was to find the man who had made off with his most valued item of inventory.
A break came late in the day. One of his contacts had acquired knowledge of a car being broken up for salvage by a garage near the border with Iran. The contact was told to go there and find out what he could. Hours later, the man called. He had purchased the papers and some parts of the car from the thieves. The car was registered to the American Embassy in Ashgabat. There was blood on the inside driver’s door panel. There were several bullet holes in the car.
Ajir was puzzled. Why would the Americans be interested in the item? Why would they even know about it? Did the Americans interrupt the thieves? Was that the reason for the fire fight in the parking lot? If it was the Americans, they would not have gone to Iran, the last place an American agent would go. That would mean that the thieves had stolen the embassy car, either at the scene or from the embassy.
Ajir finally concluded the real enemy had to be Al Kafajy. His best plan would be to go after Al Kafajy’s offices in Iran, beginning with the one in Mashhad since it was closest to the border.
Late into the night Ajir worked his satphone, making arrangements to go after his prey. Finally, he called his pilot. “Get the crew together,” he instructed, “we will fly to Teheran tomorrow.”
_________
Randy Pullin arrived at the post in Wyoming next morning by helicopter from The Martin Ranch in Boulder. Saleem had stayed east to keep an ear to the ground through his circle of contacts in the northeastern United States.
Back in uniform, Colonel Randy called a meeting of his task force and set the plan for the next few days. He was convinced that Roche and The Hand of Mohammed were in Iran. Over four decades Free Nation had established and maintained lots of contacts in Iran. He declared to his team that all resources were to be applied in Iran to find Roche and the item he carried. This would be the standing order until they found him or determined with certainty that he was not there.
Pullin spoke with Gunny Grundstrom and Brandt via satphone. “Where is Steck and where is he going next?” He asked.
“Steck’s heading back to Amman tonight,” Grundstrom replied. “He offered us a ride to Istanbul through Insurlik on a military hop.”
“Go with him as far as Insurlik,” Colonel Randy ordered, “then go to our friends in Van and check in with me.”
“Van?” questioned Grundstrom, “that’s one of the worst boondocks in Turkey.”
“I believe that Roche is in Iran,” said Pullin. “If I’m right, the best way to get him out of the country would be through the mountains in the north-west, beyond Tabriz. Just wait a few days in Van. I may want you to penetrate the area near Khoy. Brandt knows the area.”
Grundstrom glanced at Brandt, who was nodding assent. He knew the area well from being part of three previous incursions by Free Nation operatives.
“Why not cover Maku as well?” Gunny asked. He was also familiar with the area.
“The highway at Maku is too busy,” said Colonel Randy. “I think it would be Khoy, but I’ll think about it. Maybe we need to cover both.”
Grundstrom hesitated then said, “Colonel, are we after the guy or the goods?”
“Both the guy and the goods, declared Pullin. Do you think they will separate the guy and the goods?”
“Wouldn’t you? Grundstrom asked. “Al Kafajy has at least three offices in Iran. If Roche is there wouldn’t they separate the goods and ship them via normal channels?”
Pullin had to admit that was possible. “Maybe so Gunny,” he said. “We’ll try to cover that base if we can.”
“A tough job,” offered Grundstrom. “Brandt and I will hold up this end. If that snake tries to come our way, we’ll have him.”
Randy Pullin thought long and hard after his talk with Grundstrom. He concluded that Free Nation needed to raid Al Kafajy to get their hands on the prize. A plan began to form in his head.
_________
At eight-thirty am Susan and Greg knocked at the door of Professor Wigglesworth. After several knocks, the professor himself finally came to the door. He looked confused and upset.
“I’m sorry Mister Liss and, er….”
> “Susan Deet,” she offered.
“Yes, of course, Deet,” the professor seemed really distracted. “We cannot meet today. I’m awfully sorry to have you travel all this way but it’s not possible today. Can I come to Washington, perhaps next week?”
Greg looked at Susan then at Wigglesworth. “Is something wrong, sir? Is your wife okay?”
“We’re fine, Liss, just fine. Something’s come up, something unavoidable. Please give me a call later.” As he said this, Wigglesworth tried to close the door.
Greg felt Susan’s hand poke his side. “Okay, professor,” she said, “no problem. We’ll try to call you later.” She pushed Greg’s thigh, a signal to withdraw.
“Very well then,” the Professor said, “awfully sorry.” The door closed.
“What’s going on?” Greg asked in a low voice, as they walked back over the walk that led to the campus quadrangle.
“Just keep walking,” Susan said. When they were out of earshot of the big house and in the midst of the campus, she added, “Something is badly out of place. All the shades are drawn at Wigglesworth’s. That’s not Missus Wigglesworth’s style. I thought I saw a figure in the hall just behind the professor but to one side. I think they are being held by someone.”
“If that’s the case, we have to do something right away!” Greg’s eyes showed his concern for the old professor.
They had reached their car. “Let’s talk this through,” Susan suggested. They got in and weighed their options. They decided to circle in the car to observe what could be seen from the vehicle. They found a vehicle behind the big house that was way out of place in the campus environment. It was a subtly up-armored Mercedes 450. On the next block, they observed two guys in a parked Chevy sedan. It had the look of a stakeout. All else seemed quiet.
Susan pulled the car to the curb out of sight of the Chevy. “Those guys look like cops,” she said. Greg suggested they check with the local police. Susan thought better of it. They decided to call Lindsley.
Mort Lindsley answered at his desk. His secretary was off for the day so he was a bit grumpy at answering calls rather than getting work done.
“Mort, this is Susan.” She quickly explained the situation.
“Hold on, Susie,” Mort responded. “I’ll be a minute.”
Susan had parked along the north side of the quadrangle in a place where they could keep an eye on the professor’s house.
“Hey Susie, have a look at that,” Greg pointed toward the front door of the big house. There was a woman at the door. “Hand me the camera.”
Susan reached in the back with one hand, holding the satphone to her ear with the other. She found and handed the camera to Greg, who zoomed the lens to focus on the front door. “It’s Missus Wigglesworth,” Greg said, “she’s talking with a student.”
Susan handed Greg the phone and took a look through the camera lens. “Hey, that’s her housekeeper. I remember from my last visit.” Susan snapped three quick frames.
The door closed and the housekeeper walked back to the quadrangle looking rather perplexed.
“Susie?” It was Mort Lindsley on the phone.
“No, this is Greg. Susie’s right here.” He handed her the phone.
“Hi,” Susan said.
“Susie, we just checked with the Hanover Police. They do not know of any stakeout and no private detectives have filed with them today. I suggest you stay there and keep an eye on things. Do you think the Wigglesworths are in danger?”
“It’s hard to tell,” Susan answered. “The professor seemed rattled when he answered the door. We have just observed his wife at the door. She looks unharmed.”
Mort gave Susan contact information for the local police along with the name of the officer he had contacted. “Call him, Susie and keep them in the loop. If there’s trouble, they are the only ones in a position to help.”
Susan and Greg watched for about an hour. The Hanover police sent a cruiser by to get and run identification on the registrations of the two vehicles. They reported to Susan that the Chevy was a rental from Manchester, but the Mercedes was registered to a man named Ahmed Karabbi of New York City.
About noontime, three men left the Wigglesworth house and drove off in the Mercedes. They were followed by the Chevy. As they turned onto I-91 south, the Vermont State police put them under surveillance. When the Mercedes reached eighty miles-per-hour, Vermont troopers in two cruisers stopped them for a speeding violation then reported the identities of the three men. They were all citizens of Saudi Arabia. One was traveling on a diplomatic passport. They were issued a warning and released.
Susan and Greg decided to get some lunch then pay the professor another visit.
CHAPTER 38
Ajir was invited to dinner at the President Hotel by the Saudis who had hoped to visit his now destroyed office. He accepted because he wanted to find out what role they were playing in the events concerning The Hand of Mohammed. They expressed sorrow over his misfortune then asked if he still had a certain antiquity in his possession. He decided to see their offer. “It is still available,” he answered.
The Prince spoke. “The item is the rightful property of the Kingdom,” he asserted. “It was taken from us many years ago and to our knowledge had been lost until recently. If the item can be returned by you directly to the Kingdom, our gratefulness would be in the range of one billion dollars.” The Prince paused to search Ajir’s eyes. Ajir never broke his steady gaze. The Prince ended with, “If it is not returned to us, our wrath will amount to many times that value.”
Ajir thanked them politely and said that their generous offer would be considered. Inside, he was seething. ‘A billion!’ he thought. If he only had the item, he would close the deal right now. After a pause, he said “There is a small problem, gentlemen. During the fire at my office last evening, the item went missing. I have men searching the remains of the building. As soon as the item is found, I will notify you and we can resume the transaction. Due to red tape with the authorities, this may take some time. It may be as long as three or four weeks. I assure you it will be found and that you will be the first considered.”
The Prince’s eyes narrowed. “We expect to be the only ones considered for which we will add an additional one-hundred million. That is the only offer and the best. Do you agree?”
Ajir swallowed hard. “I agree.”
On his way home, Ajir rang the hotel where his militiamen were housed. “I expect to be flying to Teheran tomorrow morning,” he announced to their leader, Hakim. “Pick three of your best men. Send the rest to Mashhad by bus. Be sure they enter Iran as tourists. We can pack their weapons on my airplane. You and the three men will accompany me to Teheran as body guards.”
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Irad pulled his Volvo into the parking garage of Al Kafajy Trading Company in Teheran. It was just south east of the Doshan Tappei airbase.
Roche saw two fighter planes taking off from the air base as they passed by the end of the runway. They bore Iranian markings but they looked like Chinese F8’s. Roche figured guys like Steck would love to know that. They probably did anyway.
Inside the building, Irad showed Roche to his home for the next few weeks. It was a small apartment that customers and visiting company brass used on occasion. It was comfortable enough, but lacked windows and only had one door. Roche thought it felt like house arrest. He was not naive enough to think that the place was for his security. It was more like an easy way for them to keep a lid on him. Still, it had a well stocked kitchen, fresh linen, plenty of books, satellite TV and even a bottle of scotch.
Once he was settled, Irad came and asked him for the ABS case. Roche knew that would happen but he still felt like a piece of his security had been taken away. Ostensibly the reason was to pack it away in a vault. Roche wondered if it would simply be shipped to some safe haven, which might render him superfluous.
Irad introduced Roche to the branch manager. His name was Khazeh, which Roche pronounced ‘Casey.
’ He was a tall and dark Persian with genteel manners and believable eyes. Roche liked him. Khazeh gave Roche a list of services he could expect, including maid service twice a week, his choice of fresh cooked meals or self-made, a companion to walk with him if he wanted to go outside although they preferred he stay in as much as possible, and female companionship anytime he asked for it.
Roche decided it would be best if he took exercise just twice a week, in the evening when he could use darkness as a cover and that no female companionship would be required. He asked that one meal per day be furnished and that otherwise he would cook for himself as desired. Roche was tempted by all the perks, but knew he would be respected if he showed personal restraint.
The three men shared a meal together. Irad announced over coffee and a sweet desert pudding that he would be leaving to go back to Mashhad. They said their good-byes and Irad drove off. Khazeh went home for the day an hour later.
After Khazeh was gone, Roche tried his apartment door. It was unlocked. He stepped out into the hallway. There was an armed guard at the end of the hallway, where it opened into the office area. The guard smiled and waved. Roche tried to converse with the man in English. He seemed not to understand. He decided not to try other means yet. He smiled broadly to the man and said, “House arrest, eh?” The man smiled back, offering him a cigarette. Roche declined then re-entered the apartment and locked the door.
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Susan and Greg dialed the professor’s number. He answered. “Hello professor,” said Greg. “Now that your guests are gone, will you see us?”
“I – I’d rather not right now,” The professor still sounded shaky.
“I think you should,” Greg asserted with a slightly raised voice, “or maybe we should ask a different FBI team to pay you a visit.”
“When would they visit?” Wigglesworth sounded wary.
“It will be today sir, either the two of us whom you know, or a team of strangers who may decide to search your house. Have you ever had to clean up after one of our search teams, professor?”