by James Ward
“Okay, Liss,” the professor sounded whipped. Come ahead whenever you are ready.
“We’re right outside, sir.” Greg clicked off and turned to Susan. “Let’s pack our weapons, in case those visitors left a companion.”
Missus Wigglesworth let them in without speaking. She led them to the study, invited them to sit and with a look close to contempt said, “The Professor will see you shortly.”
“How are your orchids these days?” asked Greg, trying to act cheery.
Missus Wigglesworth fixed a stark gaze on Greg. “Today is not a good day for my orchids, Mister Liss. They are far too delicate to withstand for long the indignity of ill-bred men.” The old woman assumed an air of purpose and strode out of the room.
“Well aren’t we tense today,” Susan said pointedly. Greg got her meaning.
“Fear not, Susie,” he quipped, “she’s only attacking the men.”
Susan smirked.
Professor Wigglesworth entered the room dressed in Dockers, mocs and an open white shirt that sort of matched his beard. He looked strung-out.
“Good day, professor,” Greg began.
The old man nodded. He sat in a plain wooden chair that faced them both. “What do you want to know?”
Susan nodded deference to Greg. He acknowledged it. “Let’s start with your visitors this morning, sir. Who were they and what did they want?”
The old man answered in a low voice without his usual animated tone. “They were representatives of the Kingdom of Saudi-Arabia and their purpose was to acquire knowledge of The Hand of Mohammed, its whereabouts and suggestions as to how it might be returned to their country from which it was displaced a long time ago.”
“And what did they learn from you, sir?” Greg asked.
“They learned that it had been lodged first in Iraq then America and that it is now in the hands of robbers in the Middle East.”
“Did they know or did you tell them where in the Middle East it is now held?” Greg spoke simply and without emotion, as if he was mimicking the professor.
“They asked me and I told them truthfully that I don’t know for sure but I thought it might be in Amman.” Wigglesworth’s studied monotone seemed to be infecting him. He looked as if he were about to doze-off.
“Professor,” Susan interrupted, “did they pay you for your time this morning?”
“Yes they did,” he replied.
“Did they offer more money for additional information if you should obtain it?
“Yes, they did.”
“Did they harm you in any way, or did they threaten you or your wife?” Susan stared hard into the tired eyes of the old professor.
“No, they did not.” Wigglesworth shifted uncomfortably. He tried to maintain eye contact too long then broke it awkwardly. He knew that she knew he was lying.
“Professor,” Susan said softly, almost tenderly, “what did they threaten to do?”
He just stared without responding.
“Professor,” she said in the same tone, “we want to help you. We can protect you. Let us help, please.”
Missus Wigglesworth appeared at the door. “It’s time to put things aright my dear,” she said.
The professor shrugged. “Please, not yet. I have to get some things done first.” He seemed to be pleading with his wife.
“It’s time!” she replied emphatically. “This is too big for us now. If you will not tell the truth, I will.”
“The truth,” Susan asked, “the truth about what, Missus Wigglesworth?”
“The truth about our life and about our archaeological activities during the past forty years,” she answered. The old woman pulled a chair from behind the professor’s big desk and sat facing Susan and Greg.
Greg knew they were about to hear information that the professor’s lawyer would never let them admit under oath. He fished for his mini recorder. Susan flashed him a look that said ‘put that thing away!’ She knew that what they were about to hear might not ever be heard if some interruption broke the mood.
Doctor Wigglesworth stared at his wife for a moment then he began. “Forty years ago I was a young un-tenured faculty member of this institution, a simple classics teacher with no particular future. I had stumbled across information about The Hand of Mohammed that at first fascinated me and eventually obsessed me. My obsession was all-consuming but I had no means to follow it, either financial or institutional.”
He paused to gaze at his wife. She smiled encouragement. The Professor took a deep breath, sighed and continued. “At a conference, I was approached by a Saudi businessman who had heard of my obsession. He offered to fund an institute for the purpose of seeking The Hand of Mohammed. His offer included generous gifts to this college which, in turn gained me a prominent tenured professorship, use of this house and lots of other perks for my family. Blinded by my obsession, I failed to seek advice or to see through this offer to understand what would be required of me in return.
Susan put on her best compassionate manner. “So, professor what was required of you?”
Doctor Wigglesworth stared at the floor for a long while in silence. He seemed conflicted over what to say.
“We already know a lot about your trade in illegally acquired antiquities and about the channels you have used to move them through Canada into the United States,” Susan announced, still using a soft voice and compassionate tone.
The old man took a long breath. “Then you know my shame,” he replied. “My Saudi friends kept asking for more and more. Oh, they paid me well for the trinkets. Of course they re-sold them to private collectors at a vast profit. I put most of the money right back into funding expeditions. My goal was to keep digging in likely areas around the world until I could finally find The Hand of Mohammed. As you know, that never happened.”
“And what if you had found it?” Susan asked. “They would certainly have taken it from you.”
“Well of course they would. My reasoning was that justice would be served, since it belonged to the Saudis by tradition. But to have been the finder my place in history would be secured once and for all as well.”
Greg felt bad for the old guy. ‘Greed and pride will always win in this corrupt world,’ he thought.
“So, what was the purpose of the visit today, I mean in light of what you have just told us?” asked Susan.
“Today they told me to use all my resources to find and take the precious thing for them. They believe I have more knowledge of its whereabouts than I let on.” The old man’s voice cracked as he said, “They will hurt my wife if I don’t deliver it to them!”
Missus Wigglesworth calmly corrected him. “They said they will kill me if he fails,” she said serenely. “Those people have a lot of nerve,” she added. “I am not afraid to die. Neither would my dying be a burden except in my husband’s eyes.” Perceiving Susan’s quizzical look, she added, “You see I’ve only a few months to live anyway. They would do me a favor if they cut my suffering short.”
“Don’t speak that way!” the professor shouted. Then in a small voice he gazed at her and added, “What would I do without my strength, my pillar, my hero?”
Greg looked at Missus Wigglesworth with a questioning gaze.
“It’s an immune system thing, my dear,” she said, “barely treatable.”
Remembering how strong the lady had seemed just weeks ago, Susan said “But just a few weeks ago…”
“Diagnosed just a few days ago,” the old woman replied, “we’ve only known since Saturday. The doctors think it may have something to do with long term exposure to rare plants. As you know they are my passion.” Her voice trailed off as she said, “I will miss my Orchidae.”
“I think that’s quite enough for now,” Susan announced. “We’ll arrange for our agents to put this house under constant surveillance. We’ll protect you both until this thing plays out.”
They rose to leave. At the door, Missus Wigglesworth embraced both Greg and Susan. “I’m glad we have this o
ff our mind,” she said. The professor looked relieved as well.
In the car, Greg said “Wow that was intense.”
“We have a long evening ahead,” Susan observed. “Let’s start with the local police and then the Vermont Troopers. The locals can begin surveillance until we can get a team here and the Troopers have the identities of those Saudis.”
At seven pm Mort Lindsley called Ryall Morgan. “The young folks had a busy day, Ryall. Can you spend some time in video conference tonight?”
“Sure thing,” Morgan replied. He sighed then turned off the NBA game he had been looking forward to watching and went to his computer console. This would be another long evening.
CHAPTER 39
After Paul Roche had been the guest of Al Kafajy Trading Company for three weeks he began to go out into the city, mostly at night, accompanied by his so called body guard. The man’s name was Som. They walked for miles on each outing, part of Roche’s plan to get in shape for his run to leave the country.
Som knew no English and Roche knew only a little Farsi, but each man learned from the other. Soon their walks were filled with lively conversation. By the fifth week Roche had developed a good friendship with Som and a better knowledge of conversational Farsi. He wondered if he could turn him but thought better of it. Roche was sure that Khazeh would not hesitate to have them killed if that became necessary to protect the company from embarrassment and he liked Som too much to expose him to that fate.
During one of their walks, Roche convinced Som to enter a shop that sold special Persian sweets. He had learned that Som loved the candies, but usually could not afford them. Roche gave him as much money as Som made in a week and asked to have some sweets that they could share.
Since Roche’s presence in such a shop would certainly have raised questions, Som agreed that he should stay outside. By the time Som returned with the sweets, Roche had made a phone call to an old friend in Teheran and set up a contact arrangement. The two men dug in to the delectable candies and Som was none the wiser.
For the next two weeks Roche would pay for candies and Som would enter the shop for up to ten minutes at a time. Roche used a drop arrangement to converse with his friend and began to plan for an escape if that became necessary.
Roche’s wrist was finally healed enough to use again. He strengthened it daily by playing table tennis with Khazeh.
Roche’s plans were now ready. If his ‘hosts’ actually tried to get him out of the country, he would be ready and fit. If they refused, his friend would try a rescue.
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Ali bin Akram Ajir had spent the month in Teheran at his father’s guest house. His four body guards had trained daily sometimes as a group and sometimes together with Ajir. They were now ready to make their move on Al Kafajy.
Ajir had kept his ear to the ground but found no mention of any activity that would indicate anything other than regular business at Al Kafajy’s Teheran location. The bidders from the Amman conference had been informed by Mohammed Al Kafajy himself that the sale would be re-opened within three months time at the Royal Amman Hotel. That meant he either had the prize or expected to receive it in Amman soon.
Ajir opened all channels of information but no sign of the prize was found. Ajir had paid a lot of bribes to get manifests of everything shipped by Al Kafajy from Iran. Nothing seemed out of place and nothing had been shipped by Al Kafajy from Iran to Jordan. He finally became convinced that The Hand of Mohammed must be stored at Al Kafajy’s office in Mashhad.
Even after a month, Ajir’s rage was barely controlled. His only desire was to regain the prize and collect his big score.
The rest of Ajir’s little army had holed-up in an empty warehouse in Mashhad. The men were restless and eager to proceed with an operation.
Finally, all was ready. When Ajir and his four companions approached the Al Kafajy office, all the employees had gone for the day except Irad, who was just packing his laptop into the trunk of his Volvo. The five men waited until he drove off then moved in.
Two guards were quickly killed and the door was jimmied. One of Ajir’s men disabled the alarm by electronically duping the keypad inside the entrance. Once inside, they searched every part of the facility.
After an hour they had found nothing, except a safe that the electronics expert was busy cracking. As he opened the door of this small safe, he heard a tell-tale click. It was a silent alarm, the kind that transmitted a millisecond code then went off the air. The safe cracker shouted, “Alarm, too late to disable it.”
The team leader figured they had less than five minutes to clear the building before help arrived. “Get the contents of that safe and let’s go!” shouted Ajir.
Irad was already on his way back to the building having sounded the alarm to armed men at his command in the neighborhood. He figured it was someone working for Ajir.
Four vehicles converged on the building. Ten men with pistols and assault rifles began firing at the five inside the building. Those inside returned the fire, but realized they were greatly outnumbered.
Ajir called the rest of his militia, who loaded into trucks and sped toward the scene.
Irad’s Volvo screeched to a halt at the curb. He ran crouching to the leader of his men. “I know who they are,” he shouted. “Keep them trapped inside. Wipe them out!”
As lively fire continued, the first of the trucks full of militia arrived. At first Irad thought they were more of his men. Then more trucks arrived and the men deployed with guns trained on his guys. Before he could react a fusillade erupted from all around the property. All ten of Irad’s men were soon bogged down, a few were dead.
Bewildered, Irad tried to make it back to his car. Four bullets slammed into his chest and one directly into his throat. Irad was dead before he hit the ground.
It was all over within minutes. Three of Ajir’s men had been wounded. All of their enemies were dead. As they drove away, Ajir realized that they had failed. They had failed to recover The Hand of Mohammed but even worse, they had alerted Al Kafajy to what would now have to be Ajir’s next move, in Teheran.
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Randy Pullin felt desperation. He had failed to get a warm response from Ryall Morgan. His men in Turkey had kept watch for weeks, but there was no sign of Roche at the border. For all he knew, Roche could have gone through Iraq or Afghanistan. He needed to recover the CIA’s lost item to have any chance of getting the authorities to go easy on him and his group over Brandt’s transgression. At the moment, he had no clue what to do next but to do nothing would certainly cost Free Nation severely.
The Free Nation post in Wyoming buzzed with activity. More than a hundred operatives were now reporting every move that could possibly involve the various parties to the hunt for The Hand of Mohammed.
Daily briefings went over every bit of the information gathered, whether or not it seemed relevant. Pullin pored over reports well into the night each day, frantic to find some lead that could be exploited.
It finally came as a message from his Persian friends. A raid had been pulled on Al Kafajy’s office in Mashhad. The manager had been killed along with all his guards. The rumor was that Ajir had pulled the raid. Activity at Ajir’s family’s place in Tehran indicated that he was still looking for the prize. That meant it had to be at Al Kafajy’s Teheran office. Pullin deduced that Roche had to be in Tehran, or at least The Hand of Mohammed had to be there.
Pullin spent hours communicating with everyone he knew in Iran. Finally, the big break he needed came. A former Iranian diplomat and agent named Kourosh Menzadah was working on a plan to extract an American and some precious cargo from Iran. Pullin knew he had a big break. He now had to figure the best way to profit from this information.
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Kourosh Menzadah checked his appearance in the bathroom mirror of his room at the Parsian Esteghlal hotel in Tehran. He was of medium build with the chiseled features of his royal Persian ancestors.
The Menzadah family had enj
oyed high status and much property in the days of the last Shah. Now the family had fallen on hard times. His father’s fiery temper and secular habits had landed him in jail several times over the past twenty years. As a result there were retributions of the cruelest sort characteristic of the strict Islamists who now held power. Kourosh’s excellent job in the security service had been taken away. Several members of the family had just disappeared, never to be heard from again.
One thing clear about agents and spies is that even if they lose their positions, they really never lose their training or their friends. In order to feed his family, Kourosh routinely took ‘assignments’ on the edge of society. He came to be known as a specialist at moving people with few or no credentials in or out of Iran. Taylor and Khaseh considered him the best choice to move Roche and the ABS case out of Iran.
Kourosh wiped some lint off the lapel of his business suit. He studied his teeth for specs of food then smoothed his close cut dark hair. He picked up his bag and took the stairs down three flights to the lobby. He cursed at having to wait in line for almost half-an-hour to check out. The hotel was clean but lacked the excellent service he remembered before the revolution when it was a Hilton.
Khazeh was anxious to see Kourosh. He paced his office floor waiting for nine am to come. He knew that Ajir’s next target would be his facility and he knew about his friend Irad’s death. He was afraid for his life. As long as Roche and the item he was carrying remained in Tehran he could be attacked at any minute. The eighteen Para-military troops that were guarding the property didn’t make him feel any more secure. From all accounts Ajir had amassed a small army.
After a brief meeting with Kourosh, Khaseh fetched Roche. He introduced the men. He told Roche that he was to leave today with Kourosh for the Turkish border. They would stop briefly in Tabriz, where Kourosh had a safe house. From there, they would go on to a small town named Khoy, then to a place called Qotur. Just two miles from the Turkish border, they would leave the road and follow a mountain trail. That trail would be steep and treacherous, but passable. Then they would go through a valley and up and over a mountain of about six thousand feet. They would cross the border at a place called Glaad. After they crossed into Turkey they would go to a small settlement called Kapikoy.