by James Ward
Mort Lindsley objected to wasting taxpayer money for such a junket. He was overridden by his colleagues.
The next day Susan and Greg flew to New Hampshire and collected the Wigglesworths. Missus Wigglesworth was feeling quite well and enjoyed the ride immensely. She and Susan chatted like old friends. At one point just before landing in Washington, she told Susan, “You know my dear you should latch on to young Mister Liss. He’s a bright lad with a good future, I would imagine.”
Susan blushed. Greg smirked.
At the JUMP team’s office, the group assembled and a case holding the figurine was produced. Doctor Wigglesworth opened the case and studied the thing for some time.
“May I pick it up?” he asked.
Morgan nodded. The professor held it, turned it and studied it for some time. He smelled it, which Morgan thought strange.
The team looked at one another. They hadn’t anticipated his strange behavior. The professor kept mumbling to himself. Then he stuck out his tongue and seemed to taste it.
Lindsley was about to intervene when the professor set it back into the case. He took a step back from the table and said. “It’s a fake.”
Lindsley came straight out of his chair. “It’s a what?”
“A fake, a reproduction,” the professor said with a blank expression. “This is not The Hand of Mohammed.
Lindsley turned on his projector and flashed the picture that had been taken after the Gulf War, the same as the one that had been shown to the professor in Yemen. “When you saw this photo, professor, you thought the thing was real enough. Can you explain what has changed about it?”
“Yes I can,” the professor said as he sat down. “You see that picture shows the genuine and original item. The item you have here is a recent casting. The plaster still smells fresh, whereas the real item would have no smell at all except for must or dirt in which it had been stored. Furthermore, the paint on this item is of a type unknown to artists in the seventh century when the real item would have been painted. Whoever made this reproduction knew he could never reproduce the colors using the original paint formula because the pigments used for it are simply not available today. He used modern Acrylic paint, which allowed him to obtain the colors. The bluish tint that he employed is from a compound discernable by its taste, a pigment only found in eastern Iran.”
Mort Lindsley seemed mesmerized by the professor’s analysis. The others were just exchanging incredulous looks.
“Finally,” the professor added as he studied the photo on the big screen, “If you see the tiny indentation at the base of the thumb in this photo of the original it’s plain to see that it’s simply not there in the copy. The reason for that is that it was lost in the mould transfer process when they made the fake. The artist who did this probably supposed that it would not be noticed. He also probably did not want to risk damaging the copy by trying to use a tool to re-create that indentation.”
“I guess that changes our game,” observed Morgan, “again!”
_________
Ahmed left Mister Al Kafajy’s suite in Paris in early afternoon. He went to his flat and packed his bag for a three day trip.
It was his custom to have coffee in the evening with the door man in his building, a modest apartment structure at eighteen Rue des Chappelets that housed many semi-itinerant people who had Paris as a base. Most of the residents were seldom there, so it was a good place to be anonymous.
The door man, whose name was Henri had a small espresso machine at his counter in the foyer. Seeing the small suitcase Ahmed carried from the elevator, he was curious. “So Ahmed, where will you go this time?” Henri asked, loading the machine with finely ground coffee.
“I’m off to Tehran, then to Jordan, Henri,” Ahmed announced. “If Allah wills it, I will be home in three days.”
The two drank coffee and chatted for about ten minutes until Ahmed’s taxi arrived to take him to the station. As he drove away, Henri made a telephone call to a Paris number. “He’s on his way to Tehran,” monsieur. “He returns in three days.”
Ahmed took the train to the airport then flew from Paris directly to Tehran. After spending a day with Khazeh reviewing the books of the company’s Iranian trading activity, He departed on a flight to Amman.
After checking in at Al Kafajy Trading Company’s Amman office where he deposited a package for safe keeping, Ahmed checked in to the Royal Amman hotel and called the boss.
“Do you have it?” the boss asked.
“Allah has allowed it,” said Ahmed stiffly.
“Very well, old friend,” the boss said. “Bring it to me tomorrow.”
“How is our friend Christian doing?” asked Ahmed with an air of insensitivity.
“Our Lawyers will have him released possibly tomorrow.” the boss answered, “but it will cost a lot of money.”
“Allah provides,” declared Ahmed. “I will see you tomorrow, if Allah wills it.”
_________
Brandt cut quite a figure in the new suit he had purchased in Amman for the trip to Frankfurt. His athletic six foot-two inch frame, chiseled features, bright blond brush cut hair, tanned skin and flashing blue eyes turned women’s heads as he strode through the Frankfurt International airport. The scar on his face completed the picture. His look was that of some movie star that no one could quite place.
Colonel Randy met him at the customs exit dressed in the same sort of business suit. His was custom tailored, a necessity to fit his six foot-four broad shouldered frame.
The two men ducked into a Mercedes taxi for the ride to a small hotel near the airport.
“I’m proud of you son,” said Randy. “Bob Steck says you did really well on this last mission.” The smile was genuine, but turned immediately back to the stern countenance that was Colonel Randy’s trademark expression.
“Our job is not done yet,” he announced to Brandt as soon as they were in private. “I had a hunch about the operation you just finished before it even started. You see, I did not believe that a guy like Taylor would be stupid enough to send something as precious as that Hand of Mohammed thing through the mountains of western Iran on the back of some thief, especially an American.”
Brandt gave him a quizzical look. “What do you mean? Do you think Roche didn’t have the thing?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. The chances of a guy like that making it out of the country alive were pretty slim from the beginning. A whole bunch of bad guys from different places were all after the object. It’s bad enough that Roche had to elude the Iranians but much less likely he could elude all those others as well.”
Brandt was getting interested. “So, you decoy all the enemies in one direction while you move the object in another, and if the guy they’re chasing gets killed you don’t care.”
“That’s precisely what I think was going on,” said Randy. “That’s why I had some of our friends in Paris keep an eye on Taylor’s boss, the guy that owns the trading company. It took a while, but I began to see how the guy operates. He has a side kick, a guy named Ahmed who is somewhere between a body guard and friend. This Ahmed is a shadowy character that does most of the old man’s dirty work. So I had him tailed while I checked Ahmed’s reputation on the street.” Randy handed Brandt a photo of Ahmed in full Arab dress. He looked quite sinister.
“What did you find out?” Brandt was fascinated.
“I found out that Ahmed is a cold-blooded killer, a schemer and some kind of religious fanatic. He has the sort of mentality that’s a necessary trait in your garden variety Islamic terrorist.”
“Do you think Ahmed is the real deal, the guy who has the real goods?” Brandt wondered inwardly if this was true and if so whether Steck knew he had bogus results.
Randy grinned. “I think Ahmed was ordered to wait until the diversion was played out, then to quietly move the thing from Iran to Paris.”
“When will that come down?” Brandt could see that playing this out couldn’t hurt.
�
��It’s coming down right now,” said Randy with a self-satisfied expression on his face. “Ahmed left Paris night-before-last to go to Tehran. He is due to return tomorrow after a stop in Amman which is just a standard practice to shift the trail, I figure.”
“So why are we in flipping Frankfurt?” Brandt asked.
“Same deal, son,” he replied, “to shift the trail.”
Brandt got it. “Were not staying here, are we.” He declared.
“Here’s the plan,” Randy announced. “We stay checked in here in Frankfurt. The flight records will show that we are both in Frankfurt and the hotel register will show us here for the next few nights. I have a car and two EU passports so we move freely. We drive to Paris now, snatch the goods from this Ahmed character tomorrow night and return to Frankfurt. Then we fly to Washington and give the thing to the FBI in return for their turning a blind eye towards Free Nation after the dust settles.”
Brandt considered what he had just heard. If Colonel Randy was right, they would be heroes. If he wasn’t, the world would have one less bad dude. “Let’s get started.” He declared.
CHAPTER 48
Susan and Greg completed their escort duty delivering the Wigglesworths back to Hanover and safely back to their home. They stayed for dinner at the insistence of Missus Wigglesworth.
At dinner Susan gave the professor and his wife clear instructions that were not to reveal anything about the day’s activities. Their cover story would be that they had attended a conference in Baltimore.
As they flew back to Washington, Greg and Susan discussed the state of the JUMP team’s operation. “This one has sure been a roller coaster ride,” he commented.
“Yeah,” Susan agreed, “kind of like our ride, eh?” She searched his eyes for a response.
Greg took her hand. “I hope our ride is just beginning,” he said returning the gaze. “I think it won’t be like a roller coaster, Susie. I hope it will be steady and strong like a rock.”
“With a strong foundation,” she added.
Greg squeezed her hand. “I broke it off with Lisa. That’s why I was late the other day.”
She wanted to say something like ‘what did you see in Lisa anyway.’ Instead she returned the squeeze. “That’s what you wanted?” she asked.
“That’s what I wanted.”
They were both silent for a while.
Susan was encouraged but not cocky. “How much of what I said the other night made sense to you?’ she asked.
“Most of it,” he admitted. “I mean after I had time to think it through I understood the way you feel.”
“How do you feel Greg,” she asked it like a little girl.
“It’s not what I expected, I mean from any woman these days. But I realize it’s you and what you are and I respect you too much not to accept it.”
Susan decided that was enough for now. She was so excited inside she wanted to shout and dance but she was afraid to let that out just yet. “Thanks for respecting me,” She said simply.
_________
Marya Lukianov returned to her new place, a small furnished apartment arranged for her use by CSIS. She had just finished a relaxing extended lunch in a local sidewalk café. She felt good about her new quarters and was settling in for some quality personal time, something she did not get as often as she liked. She carried a small volume of Voltaire, just the perfect book for wasting time in Paris.
She nodded to the door man and headed for the elevator.
“Oh, Mademoiselle,” the door man called after her. “There is a message for you from the building manager.”
She turned and pulled her dark glasses lower on her nose. Peering over them, she said “For me?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle, the manager wants to know if everything is all right with your flat. Is there anything else you will require?”
“Everything is fine. I don’t need anything else at the moment. Thank you for asking, Monsieur.”
“Henri,” the man added, “My name is Henri, at your service Mademoiselle. “Would you like some Italian coffee? I have it here all the time for my friends in the building.”
“No thank you, Henri. Thank you for the message.” Marya stepped into the elevator. She hoped the man would not become too annoying.
She decided to spend the rest of the day reading Voltaire. This evening, she would take a long hot bath and be early to bed. Tomorrow she would have time to unpack and put her personal things away.
Marya had just finished drawing her bath and was ready to step in when her secure satphone rang. She grumbled at the thought of losing all that hot water. She wrapped a bathrobe around herself and reached for the phone.
“Marya, hello, it’s Bob.” She couldn’t believe it was the boss. It had to be nearly midnight in Ottawa.
“Hello Bob,” she answered, “you’re up late.”
“I have Ryall Morgan and Mort Lindsley on the line from Washington. We’re all patched in together.”
She sat down and opened her laptop in case she needed to take notes. “Well hello everybody,” she said, “I guess this is important considering the hour.”
“It is,” MacFergus declared. “I’m going to let Ryall speak for the three of us.”
Morgan nodded to Lindsley. “Marya, we have a problem with The Hand of Mohammed,” he began.
“What kind of problem?” she wondered what the ‘problem’ could be.
“The one you and the team rescued from the thieves who took it has turned out to be a fake, a reproduction.”
Marya sat up straighter. “It’s a fake? Wow, I can’t believe it. But how could that be?
“We think the chase in eastern Iran was a set up to decoy us away from the real scheme to move the thing out of Iran.”
“Bummer,” she mumbled. “So why the call so late in your day?” she asked.
“We think it may be headed for Paris.”
Now she understood the reason for the call.
Morgan continued, “The trading company that set up the heist in the first place is run by a man named Mohammed Al Kafajy. He lives mostly in Paris and we know he’s there now. We think he will want to handle the object’s movement himself since his best guys lost it once already. We have no time to get a team put together, so we consulted Mister MacFergus and he suggested we contact you since you’re already in Paris.”
“I’m ready to help in any way I can,” she offered. “Where does this guy Al Kafajy live?
“He is at the Hotel des Chaumes, near the Place de la Concorde. He has a permanent suite there.” Morgan paused. “We’ll send you a dossier first thing tomorrow your time. Please get some surveillance put together and find out what you can about Al Kafajy’s comings and goings. We’ll get Bob Steck and a team to Paris within a few days to assist you.”
“And if I run across the famous hand?” she needed direction.
“If the opportunity presents itself, take it,” MacFergus interjected.
Morgan frowned. “Above all, be careful, Marya. These guys are an accomplished group of international thieves. They are a formidable enemy.”
Marya chuckled. “After what I have experienced the past few weeks, I think you’re preaching to the choir.” She cursed herself for letting her Russian abruptness show. It was a trait she was trying to deal with in relations with North Americans.
Lindsley wrote on his note pad “FEISTY, EH?” and passed it to Morgan, who just nodded.
“I’ll get on this right away,” She said. “I’ll digest the dossier tomorrow, set up a surveillance using some of our CSIS assets in Paris and report to you tomorrow night Bob.”
MacFergus cleared his throat. He hoped her tendency to take charge wouldn’t upset the Americans. “Please report to Ryall Morgan, Marya. He’s running this operation.”
“Okay,” she said, “Anything else?”
“Just be careful,” Morgan said. “Good night.”
_________
Randy Pullin and Brandt had driven all the way to Paris from F
rankfurt in what Brandt called “record time.” They arrived on Rue des Chappelets at dusk, picking out a parking spot along the street and setting up a stake-out of sorts.
Their reward came only one hour later, as Ahmed arrived in a taxi from the air transfer station. He told the taxi driver to wait then headed for his apartment building with suitcase in hand. He would drop his clothes and return to the taxi to take the prize to Mister Al Kafajy personally.
Pullin recognized Ahmed from the picture he had posted to the sun visor of their car. “Let’s go,” he announced leaving the car. Brandt followed just steps behind.
Pullin approached Ahmed on the sidewalk just outside the door to number eighteen. “Ahmed,” he called.
Surprised that some one on the street knew his name, the man turned toward Pullin. “Do I know you?” he asked, reaching for the knife in his belt, a move hidden from view by his ample trench coat.
“I want that suitcase then you can go,” Pullin announced.
Brandt pulled his Beretta and flashed it so that Ahmed could see.
The taxi driver took in the scene and decided he was better off out of there. He put the car into gear and sped away.
Ahmed tried to run towards the taxi, which had enough speed that he never could have reached it.
Brandt clicked off the safety on his Beretta.
Pullin spun towards Brandt to instruct him not to shoot. Before he could raise his hand or speak the Beretta barked loudly, a warning shot that Brandt directed into some trash behind Ahmed.
Upstairs on the third floor having heard the shot Marya pulled aside a curtain to have a look at the scene. She saw three men on the street below. One of them was Brandt, the man she had just left in Istanbul. One looked as if he was working with Brandt. The third was their target, she reckoned. She watched with puzzlement and horror as the target hurled a knife at Brandt and caught him square in the chest.
She grabbed her SIG and slid the window open. Brandt slumped to the street. She took aim and put a single shot in the head of his assailant.
Marya left the window and bounded down the stairs in her bathrobe.