Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set

by Phillip Strang

  Initially, she had refused to take another trip to another danger zone without a mandatory break. However, pressure from the American government had ensured her reserve status in the Germany Army would force her compliance. She was not pleased that pressure had been applied. She knew that if it had been explained, she would have complied with any request, but two operations back-to-back was not how she liked to operate. Too much stress in the field, she always reasoned, and she needed time off to relax.

  Twenty-four hours later she checked into the same hotel as Ed and Charles. Ed had seen her briefly at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, looked twice when he saw her in the hotel foyer. Charles, close to retirement – or being put out to pasture, as he would say – felt the vigour of youth returning. Ed pulled in his bulging stomach and tried to look taller than he was. Charles almost stood to attention as she approached.

  ‘Hello, I’m Yanny Schmidt.’ A beautiful, slim woman of medium height, with a complexion between white and black as belied her mixed heritage and olive-coloured eyes held out her hand. She was dressed in a white blouse with beige trousers. She looked like a model, yet according to Uri, she killed like a commando.

  ‘I’m told you speak Persian fluently.’ Ed tried to act naturally, although he couldn’t help staring.

  ‘You want me to go into Iran. Is that correct?’

  ‘I’m told that you are willing to go undercover. We need you to find someone.’

  ‘I was briefed before I left the States. It would be best if you bring me up to date as to whom we are looking for and why. And, please, the full story. No abbreviated versions subject to security clearance nonsense,’ she said. She was used to men seeing the face and the slim body and assuming she was vacuous and empty-headed. The best way to control the situation was for them to see her as an equal, not as a potential plaything.

  ‘I was going to mention security clearance.’ Ed focussed his eyes away from below her neck and looked her in the eye.’ He cleared his throat before continuing. ‘Sam Haberman, a scientist, working at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in the USA, was part of a team that developed a genetically engineered virus – smallpox, to be precise.’

  ‘I know that much. But why?’ she asked.

  ‘There was an executive order.’

  ‘You mean the President of the United States?’

  ‘Yes, that is my understanding.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Haberman had taken a vial of this virus, with some questionable authorisation, to a research centre in the United Kingdom.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They created the virus, but they could not come up with a vaccine. The plan for Haberman was to continue with his research there.’

  ‘They make a virus and then they can’t control it. What lunacy is that?’ she asked.

  ‘They would say it was an attempt to create the ultimate bioweapon before the terrorists, and then figure out how to control it afterwards.’

  ‘How deadly is this?’

  ‘It has a one hundred percent fatality rate. Release it in a populated area and it will kill everyone.’

  ‘Is that proven?’ she asked.

  ‘They – we assume Haberman’s people – have tested it already in a remote part of Afghanistan. It killed about four hundred villagers and an American doctor.’

  ‘And you don’t know what or who we are dealing with?’

  ‘The only clear fact is that Sam Haberman, a supposedly Israeli-born Jew never existed, and we don’t know where he is.’

  ‘And he has a virus that could kill millions?’

  ‘Yes, that about sums it up. We need you to find him. If we go after him with too many people, he or his organisation may panic, release the virus indiscriminately.’

  ‘I’ll need two people,’ she said.

  ‘CIA?’

  ‘No, I don’t want the CIA anywhere near this, they’ll be too obvious. Make that three. I want my team.’

  ‘Anything you want, as long as you find him.’

  ‘We’ll find him although whether we can stop him releasing the virus before it’s too late is another issue,’ she said.

  ***

  The Central Intelligence Agency frustrated Yanny Schmidt. She had agreed to work with them undercover in Iraq eighteen months previously. It was meant to be a two-week assignment, but it lasted for four. After that, there always seemed to be something they wanted her to do. The paperwork, the useless reports, the almost indecipherable acronyms seemed counterproductive to someone who had spent time in the field.

  The only way to deal with Sam Haberman, or whatever his name was, was to work with the people she trusted. Steve Case, her previous boss, and former one-night lover was the ideal organiser. Phil Marshall, the laconic Australian, a great man undercover, lethal with a knife, and Harry Warburton, the scourge of African ivory poachers, were who she wanted with her in the field. She knew they would come.

  Phil Marshall was the first to arrive, although he had come the furthest, from Australia. ‘Looking after a bunch of stupid sheep is harder work than dealing with the assorted riff-raff we used to go after in the past,’ he said on his arrival in Tel Aviv. ‘I’m glad to be here. What’s the trouble this time?’

  He had always said he would take up farming and, after the recent dry spell of work, he had decided to give it a go. He did not have a natural affinity for a quiet life on an isolated farm. He had only just turned sixty, and as fit as any man half his age, with a libido to match.

  Harry Warburton arrived one day after. A product of the best education that the English school system could offer, he loved Africa and its people. He was a relentless advocate of the need to stem the senseless slaughter of its wildlife. The accent and the wealth were aristocratic, yet he rarely revealed the fact that he was an Earl. No longer dependent on generating income to satisfy his devotion to Africa, he had come immediately at her request.

  Steve Case, the only American and the team’s lead was the organiser. It always caused Yanny difficulties when she saw him at the airport in Tel Aviv. She was still in love with him and, apart from a one-night entanglement in Kabul before he had met his wife Megan, they had managed to keep their relationship professional.

  ‘Yanny, what do you need us for?’ Harry asked.

  ‘We need to find someone.’

  ‘I thought you were working for the CIA?’ Steve felt uncomfortable at seeing her again.

  ‘I made it a condition that it’s the team, or I’m not in.’

  ‘And they agreed?’ Steve asked.

  ‘It’s too serious, they had no option. We’ll be coordinating with Ed Small, CIA. He says he knows you, Steve.’

  ‘I’ve met him.’

  She continued. ‘There’s a Detective Inspector Charles Proctor, British Police, and Uri Weizman, Mossad here as well. We’ll meet with them later. I told them I needed to talk to the team first.’

  ‘What’s it all about? Can’t you give us a heads up?’ Phil asked.

  ‘We’re meeting them at midday. I’ll let them tell you. No doubt they’ll ask you to sign a bunch of papers, security clearance or something similar.’

  It must be significant for you to call us in,’ Harry said. ‘I only came because of you. I’ve got plenty to do down in Africa.’

  ‘You’re making quite a name for yourself. Your attempts to curb poaching by some fairly draconian methods are raising the hackles of the do-gooders and the humanitarians.’

  ‘I only say it as it is. Twenty years and you won’t find an elephant outside of a zoo. It’s either the animals or the poachers.’

  ‘If what you hear today is not stopped, it could be only the animals that survive,’ she said.

  ‘Is it that serious?’ Steve asked.

  ‘I’ve said too much. Let’s wait for the others. They’ll bring you up to speed.’

  ***

  Yanny had intended to fully brief her team before meeting with Ed and Charles. She decided against it
knowing full well that they would support her regardless.

  Ed Small, two hours later took responsibility for outlining in as much detail as he could. Charles Proctor was also present. He concluded his presentation with a question for all present. ‘Either we stop Sam Haberman and retrieve the virus he has stolen, or the consequences are too frightening to imagine. Are you in?’

  ‘We’re in,’ Steve spoke for the team.

  ‘I need to go to Kish Island,’ Yanny said.

  ‘I’ll go to England,’ Harry said. ‘Check out the cottage and see if we can find out where Haberman went on his previous trip out of the country. Charles, are you okay to work with me?’

  ‘That’s fine, my pleasure.’ The detective inspector was glad to be going home.

  ‘And I should go to Kish as well,’ Phil said. ‘Uri, can you fix me up with travel documents? Maybe Lebanese Christian, French father, Lebanese mother. My colour shouldn’t be an issue then.’

  ‘No problem, how are you with the language?’

  ‘My French is reasonably fluent, and my Arabic is passable. No Persian though, but it shouldn’t be too much of an issue.’

  ‘What do you intend to do, Steve? What are your plans?’ Charles asked.

  ‘I’ll stay here for the present.’

  Chapter 5

  Room 605 at the Dariush Grand Hotel on Kish Island was impressive. Yanny found the thick, dark walnut of the furniture a little dull for her tastes, although the bed was soft and comfortable. The television even had CNN and the BBC. Uri had arranged accreditation from the Iranian tourist board, although how he had obtained it was unknown. Mossad seemed to be able to arrange anything. The Iranian tourist board had a convention on the island to promote international tourism. Her German passport stated Senegalese heritage, religion, Islam. Coupled with her fluency in Persian, it had ensured no awkward questions at immigration as to why a woman was travelling on her own.

  They had provided her with a headscarf on arrival. It was a pleasant colour and not oppressive. She had wisely worn a loose-fitting, long-sleeved shirt and trousers. The headscarf was only loosely wrapped around her head. To her, it was no worse than what she would have worn during a severe winter in Germany.

  ‘Sebastian Coster, I knew him from my time at university in England. I’m told he is staying here?’ she asked casually at the reception in the foyer of the hotel at check-in.

  ‘He’s paid for another week, but I know he hasn’t slept in his room for the last few days,’ Fatima, a pleasant young woman said. She spoke reasonable English and was glad to converse with Yanny.

  ‘Have you seen him recently? It would be good to catch up with him,’ Yanny asked.

  ‘I’ve not seen him in the hotel recently.’

  ‘Is there anyone that may be able to help?’

  ‘He used to go to a café down near the water’s edge,’ the hotel receptionist replied. ‘That’s all I know.’

  The café was a brisk five-minute walk. She was glad of the exercise. Mahmoud, the waiter at the café, was an earnest and enthusiastic youth of about nineteen. ‘He said he was going to Jordan.’ It wasn’t often that he spoke with a female, and certainly not one as attractive as Yanny. She had described Sam Haberman alias Sebastian Coster in detail, careful not to mention his name.

  ‘Many people, when they come to England or America, change their names so that the locals can pronounce them,’ she explained. ‘I’m not sure what name he would use here.’

  ‘Khaled, that’s what we called him,’ the waiter replied. ‘He said he had been born in Jordan, and that he was going there to see his parents. He was talkative, spent a few hours here every time he came in. He thought our cappuccino was excellent, always left a decent tip.’

  ‘Khaled,’ she was quick on the phone to Phil. ‘That’s the name he was using outside of the hotel. No surname, but it may help.’

  She then called Steve. ‘Can you check with Uri Weizman? The name’s Khaled, Jordanian. He may have a new passport, a new name, and left the country already.’

  Steve confirmed two hours later. ‘There’s a Khaled al-Fayez, a Jordanian citizen, who transited Dubai and took a connection to Amman. Security at the airport picked him up on a surveillance camera. You and Phil need to move up to Jordan. No issues there, you can both go in on your regular passports Travel separately.’

  ‘We’ll take the first flights,’ she replied.

  ‘Why did he bother with going to Iran?’ Steve was puzzled.

  ‘They have biometric scanning and photo recognition technology at Dubai International. Transiting would have avoided immigration. Their computers would have picked the name change in an instant,’ Yanny replied.

  The flight out from Iran was scheduled that night at nine in the evening. Yanny sat four rows in front of Phil. They did not acknowledge each other’s presence.

  Amman’s Queen Alia International Airport was crowded on their arrival with Jordanians returning from overseas and Western tourists heading to Petra. It was incongruous, women covered head to toe in black jostled to get their passports stamped along with Western women in shorts and tight tops. The conservative religious Mullahs disapproved, but the businessmen and the government wanted the money. The shorts and the tight tops tolerated as long as their purses were neither.

  It was only thirty kilometres from the centre of town, but it took nearly two hours to negotiate the traffic. Yanny checked into the Amman Pasha on Al Shabsough Street; Phil into the Toledo Hotel. Phil’s hotel was excellent. Yanny’s was showing signs of wear and tear. Their leads had run cold. They needed an update from either Steve or Harry.

  ***

  Charles Proctor was an experienced and dedicated policeman, but not as comprehensively trained as Harry in the devious behaviour of a terrorist. He knew their tricks, their attempts to deceive and confuse. He knew where to look.

  ‘Let’s check the cottage again,’ he said.

  ‘I gave it a thorough going-over when I was there,’ Charles said. ‘The little old lady next door wanted to keep sticking her head around the door for a chat. Just lonely, I suppose, but I don’t believe I missed anything.’ As a detective inspector of many years standing, he was a little perturbed at having his work questioned.

  ‘It’s important. You may have missed something while she distracted you.’

  ‘Okay, let’s go. I’ll talk to her, stroke the cat while you look around.’

  As agreed, Charles, a senior policeman, nearly forty years in the force, was left making small talk while a man twenty years his junior, with a posh accent, checked his work.

  ‘Did you find anything of interest?’ he asked later as they enjoyed a ploughman’s lunch: bread, cheese, and pickles, in a local pub.

  ‘I found a phone number on a screwed-up piece of paper out near the woodpile.’

  ‘I missed that,’ said Charles. ‘Do you think it is significant?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll need to get it checked out.’

  After their lunch, Harry contacted Steve. ‘I’m sending you a phone number. I’m not sure which country, there’s no dialling code.’

  ‘I’ll run it past Uri.’

  Steve called back within the hour. ‘It’s a mobile number in Jordan, registered to Ismael Hafeez, a Palestinian exile living in Amman. There’s an address.’

  ‘Steve, I’ll need to update my superiors soon.’ Uri said. ‘I can’t hold them off without giving them some information.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Ed. See what he says,’ Steve replied.

  ***

  Harry and Charles, having exhausted their efforts in England, now focussed on the missing two weeks of Sam Haberman. They knew he had crossed the English Channel using the name of Simon Asquith. From there, the trail had gone cold. Interpol had been alerted, but Charles had told them it was related to drug smuggling.

  ‘I’ve got a contact in the French police,’ he said. ‘We’ve worked together a few times, passed information to each other. I’ve never met the man, but it’
s worth a shot.’

  ‘Sounds fine, give him a call. Where is he?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Paris. He works with their counter-terrorism unit.’

  Dialling the number in France, Charles asked to be put through to his contact.

  ‘Philippe, it’s Charles Proctor, British Police. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, how can I help you?’

  ‘I need to find someone very quickly. We know he crossed over to France using a British name, but after that, the trail has gone cold.’

  ‘Give me his name and any other details and I’ll search our records.’

  ‘It’s unlikely he’s using that name now,’ Charles said. ‘We’ve been unable to find any trace of his other aliases.’

  ‘So we have one elusive character,’ the Frenchman asked.

  ‘Yes, he’s certainly that, and very dangerous.’

  ‘I could circulate his details, see what we can find.’

  ‘No, please don’t do that. We want to know where he went for a two-week period. We don’t want him to know we’re looking for him.’

  ‘Undercover, cloak and dagger type work?’ Philippe said suspiciously. ‘That isn’t your usual modus operandi.’

  ‘It’s not. I’m working with the CIA.’

  ‘You’ve been given a promotion then.’

  ‘Not really, but it’s better than sitting behind a desk for the next couple of years.’

  ‘Yes, I knew you had been set up.’ Philippe, as with Ed Small seemed to know the details of how Charles Proctor, a senior police officer came to be desk bound.

  ‘Everybody appears to know except the Chief of the Metropolitan Police, but that’s enough of my sour grapes. Can we be in your office, three o’clock this afternoon?’ Charles asked.

  ‘Look forward to seeing you. I assume you’re not coming on your own.’

  ‘I’m bringing someone, Harry Warburton. He’s based in Africa, but helping out on this case.’

  ‘You mean the Earl of Hampden?’ Philippe said with some amusement.