Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set

by Phillip Strang

  After he had ended the call, Charles looked at Harry. ‘Philippe told me you were an Earl?’

  ‘The title is hereditary. I never use it, and I never did anything to earn it. I have no love of the class system that still pervades. I much prefer Africa. There, I’m just Harry Warburton, advocate for saving the wildlife.’

  ‘Okay, Harry it is. I assume that explains the accent.’

  ‘It does. Please never mention it to any of the team. None of them knows, especially Yanny and Phil. Steve found out a long time ago.’

  ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

  ***

  ‘A Simon Asquith chartered a plane out of France, heading to the Middle East, paid cash. No questions asked and no paperwork trail for us to follow,’ Philippe said in the third-floor office he occupied out near the Bois de Boulogne.

  Blue-eyed, wavy-haired, Philippe Dupre was in his mid-forties. He spoke English with a strong accent indicative of Provence. With a good education and a logical, intuitive mind, he had risen quickly through the ranks until he attained a position in the counter-terrorism unit of the French police. As with all countries that had dispensed with royalty and aristocracy, he had a fascination with the concept. It needed Harry to become mildly annoyed before Philippe ceased addressing him as my Lord.

  ‘We’ve checked the flight plan,’ Philippe continued. ‘It was scheduled into Abu Dhabi. Once there and refuelled, it took off and headed for parts unknown. We can only assume someone misplaced the flight plan out of Abu Dhabi, or it was never filed. The plane, however, returned ten days later.

  ‘What about the pilots out of France?’ Harry asked, relieved that Philippe had got over that nonsense with the title: some people were endlessly fascinated, some even bowed in his presence. He would have renounced the title, but then the taxation laws in the UK would have hammered him on the stately house and the substantial real estate holdings.

  Legally, it would have made no difference, but he knew how it worked. If you weren’t one of them, the upper classes, then you were a traitor to the institution, and you needed to be taught a lesson. He needed the money for his plans to create a network of nature reserves throughout Africa. It was horrendously expensive. The bribes alone to every tin pot politician were going to cost him at least forty million dollars.

  ‘Once in Abu Dhabi, Simon Asquith brought in some locals to fly the plane, Philippe replied.

  ‘That’s not strictly legal, is it?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Not sure, but the pilots out of France were paid one hundred thousand dollars each to turn a blind eye. They also put them in the best hotel in town and fixed them up with a few girls.’

  ‘What about the pilots now?’ Charles asked.

  ‘We’re holding them for questioning. The owner of the charter company may have a few words, probably sack them, but they’ve still got the money.’

  It was clear that the action had yet again moved to another country. ‘It seems we need to go to Abu Dhabi,’ Harry said. ‘Fancy another trip, Charles?’

  ‘‘Is it as hot as Dubai?’

  ‘You should look on the map. It’s only a hundred kilometres away. It’ll be as hot as hell.’

  ‘And people go there for their holidays. For me, I prefer a summer’s day down by the English seaside, not being burnt to a cinder in an oven.’

  Etihad Airlines, based out of Abu Dhabi, had a flight that night. Charles and Harry were on it, business class. It was six-thirty the next morning when they exited the terminal and felt the first blast of heat.

  ‘It’s thirty-five in the shade and the sun’s barely up,’ Charles complained.

  ‘Steve’s coming in later this morning,’ Harry said. ‘He’s had to go via Amman – no direct flights here from Israel.’

  ‘How do we go about finding out what’s going on here?’

  ‘I’m sure Uri and Mossad know their way around,’ Harry said, ‘and there’s always the CIA.’

  ***

  ‘Steve, you’ve got to update me as to what’s going on,’ Uri was adamant. ‘I have to write reports. I have bosses I’m answerable to. I have to account for my time.’ Steve was booked on a flight within two hours from Tel Aviv to Abu Dhabi via Amman and Uri wanted answers. He deserved answers.

  ‘I received a phone call from Ed Small. In fact, I called him first.’

  ‘And what’s the situation?’

  ‘It’s confidential. You’ll need to keep it to yourself.’

  ‘I’m not sure how I can do that. I’m a government official, subject to the laws of Israel.’

  ‘You will receive a phone call from a senior government officer in Israel very shortly,’ Steve said.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘The President of Israel, maybe the Prime Minister. I’m not sure which.’

  ‘Why will they do that?’

  ‘The President of the United States has just phoned them. There is apparently a longstanding agreement that, in times of global emergency, normal protocols, unnecessary paperwork and questions are circumvented. This is one of those times. What do you know at this moment? Or what you believe you know?’

  Uri frowned. ‘I’m aware that there is supposedly an American-Israeli Jewish scientist moving around the world, changing his name and carrying a stolen virus with incredible destructive capability.’

  ‘You know as much as I do. The reason we are using relatively few people is that, if we frighten him, he could release the virus before we have a chance to stop him.’

  ‘Where would they release it? Any ideas?’ asked Uri.

  ‘Anywhere, but you traced a mobile that Haberman phoned to a number in Jordan...’

  ‘And that person is a Palestinian exile who has been vocal in his condemnation of the state of Israel,’ Uri completed the sentence.

  ‘It seems likely that Israel would be a primary target,’ Steve replied.

  ‘What about my bosses in Mossad?’ Uri asked.

  ‘I assume they will also receive a phone call from your President or Prime Minister.’

  ‘We can’t even warn the populace to be on the lookout for suspicious people, to avoid public places,’ Uri said.

  ‘There’s nothing that can be done. We’ll only alert Haberman and his group. Millions of people are dependent on us, and we cannot tell them.’

  It was no more than what Uri knew and had surmised. His only concern had been with those in his office who needed a cost centre to book his time against and for someone to get his senior people to stop asking him questions. His next visit to his office clearly showed that it had been addressed. No more questions and his superior had wished him well, keep me posted when and if you can.

  ***

  Six hours later Steve arrived in Abu Dhabi. The connection out of Amman was late. He was booked into the Radisson Blu out on Yas Island. Harry and Charles were already there.

  ‘What’s our plan? Do we have a contact?’ Charles asked. He continued to feel the heat. Harry was used to the heat of Africa ‒ it bothered him less. The formalities of greeting each other dispensed with quickly.

  ‘Uri has someone,’ Steve replied. ‘He’s coming soon.’

  Within ten minutes, they were met by Uri’s contact.

  ‘Mohammad Al-Rashid at your service. Uri Weizman mentioned that I may be able to help you.’

  ‘Yes, that is correct. I must admit I am a bit surprised,’ Steve said as he looked up at an Arab dressed in the traditional clothing of the region.

  ‘Why? Is it because I am a Muslim and an Arab? You are assuming that I would be opposed to dealing with the Israelis.’

  ‘I suppose that is what I was inferring. My apologies if I have offended you.’

  ‘I am not offended. The Jews are still the children of God, of Allah. As such, they have a right to exist. I may not agree to their treatment of the Palestinians, but they have brought many benefits to the region. I help them as I choose, and I am led to believe that what you are involved with is of critical importance. It could have a sign
ificant impact on Jews as well as Arabs.’

  ‘A significant impact on the world,’ Steve replied, careful not to say too much.

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘A plane arrived here from France, a chartered jet. It then flew out to an unknown destination. We need to know where.’

  ‘It seems a simple request to ascertain where it went to. As to what happened when they arrived will be more difficult.’

  Mohammad Al-Rashid was correct in that ascertaining the destination of the plane would be a simple request. The two pilots, both citizens of the United Arab Emirates, had no reluctance to inform him, since as the Sheik told the team later, he had given each of them five thousand American dollars in cash.

  It was late at night, close to midnight when Al-Rashid returned to the hotel where Steve, Harry, and Charles were staying. ‘I am told that the plane flew to Kabul, and the five passengers left the airport within two hours in a helicopter, heading in a northerly direction.’

  Steve was reminded of his last time there. It was the one place he did not want to visit again.

  ‘We have to go to Kabul.’ Harry was intrigued to see the place.

  ‘The furthest I’ve ever been before becoming involved in this was Rome,’ Charles commented.

  ‘Did all five passengers come from France?’ Harry asked.

  ‘The local pilots did not know how many came from France,’ Al-Rashid replied, ‘although they think two of them did.’

  ‘Which two?’ Steve asked.

  ‘They all spoke Arabic. The pilots overheard smatterings of their conversations. The two principal persons, one said he wanted to check on the field trial. The other spoke of the plan.’

  ‘Did they get any names for these two?’ Harry asked.

  ‘The younger one, the one who spoke about the trial, was apparently called Samir. The other one was Ismael Hafeez. He saw his documents on a table. That’s all the information there is.’

  ‘Steve, do you know anyone on the ground in Kabul?’ Harry knew it was a touchy subject.

  ‘Yes. I need to go with you.’ He turned to Al-Rashid. ‘Does Etihad fly into Kabul these days?’

  ‘Yes, there is a flight tomorrow.’

  A trip back in time, into distant and unpleasant memories, was not what he relished. However, he realised he had no alternative but to comply.

  ***

  Kabul airport, a new terminal, was a lot better than the old Russian-built terminal that Steve remembered. Barely three years old, it already looked tired and worn. They checked in at the Serena Hotel, the best place in town, apparently with the best security, although the Taliban still managed to get in occasionally, blow up a few people, shoot some others.

  Steve phoned an old contact, someone he could trust. ‘Saboor, how are you?’

  ‘Good to hear from you. Where are you?’ he replied.

  ‘I’m at the Serena, room 232. Why don’t you come over?’

  ‘Forty minutes. I’ll meet you in the foyer. Never give your room number over the phone. You don’t know who's listening. Maybe the Taliban or some thieves looking for valuables, money.’

  ‘They didn’t do that in the past. I could always leave my watch in the bathroom, or on the bedside table.’

  ‘Times change, my friend.’

  Saboor had survived the Russian occupation, the Taliban, and the Americans. In his sixties, a Tajik from the north, he had fared better than most. His Russian was better than his English, although he could hold a decent conversation in both. Now the owner of a small shop selling imported foods, he made a reasonable if modest living.

  ‘Times are tough, the wives are demanding,’ Saboor said as he and Steve sat in the foyer of the hotel. ‘They see the luxury goods in the shops, and they pressure me to buy them. They are only trinkets to me, but they know how to bend me to their will.’

  ‘I thought you would be past that type of persuasion now,’ Steve said.

  ‘How could I be? I am still a young man, and besides, I took myself a sixteen-year-old beauty three years ago, the daughter of a friend. She still keeps me up at nights. She has given me two sons. How can I refuse her?’

  ‘We need your help.’

  ‘My friend, ask anything you want.’

  ‘A plane landed here from Abu Dhabi two weeks ago. It was chartered, not the regular airline. We know that five people disembarked and took a helicopter north. We need to find out where the helicopter came from and where they went.’

  ‘I will make some enquiries. It is best if you and your friends stay in the hotel. Don’t go wandering around on the streets – although you, Mr Steve should know that.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘It was built by the Aga Khan.’ Charles had been checking out the hotel. The quality of the hotels, courtesy of the CIA’s expense account, had been superb, but this was in a league of its own. It was resplendent in its majesty. ‘Didn’t he marry Rita Hayworth, the American actress in the forties?’ he said.

  ‘I think that was his father,’ Steve replied. ‘This Aga Khan, he’s the head of the Ismailis. He does a lot of good work, charitable work in Afghanistan.

  ‘Ismailis? Who are they?’

  ‘They’re the third largest sect of Islam after the Sunnis and the Shias,’ Steve explained. ‘There are some in isolated pockets around the country.’

  ***

  Saboor returned one day later. Steve and Harry had spent time in the pool. Charles was trying to tackle the local language.

  ‘The helicopter belonged to the Governor of Badakhshan Province,’ Saboor said although his eyes were diverted to a Western woman sunbathing by the pool, her skirt hitched up high to catch the sun’s rays.

  ‘Don’t you mean a warlord?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Yes, he’s a warlord as well.’

  ‘What’s a warlord?’ Charles naively asked. His understanding of world politics was woeful.

  ‘He has a private army.’ Steve cut him short. He wanted to hear from Saboor, not indulge in a lesson on the history of Afghanistan.

  ‘Is there any point in us going up there?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Only if you want to find out what a private army is paid for,’ Steve said. ‘The Warlord, if he is involved, will not be too pleased to see us.’

  ‘I have someone up there,’ Saboor said. ‘He said he would get back to me in thirty minutes.’ He was enjoying his coffee and admiring the Western women parading up and down in clothing that was a little too provocative for the average Afghan male, but he looked all the same.

  It had taken three hours before Saboor’s contact, a male cousin had come back with some information. ‘What did he say?’ Steve asked.

  ‘The helicopter was grounded due to the weather for a few days, and those who came up from Kabul stayed with the Governor. They were Arabs, clearly identified. The locals don’t like them. They remember them from the time of Bin Laden.’

  ‘Any further information?’ Steve asked.

  ‘On the third day, the warlord’s pilot took them up into the Hindu Kush to a remote village. Once on the ground, the one named Samir exited the helicopter dressed in some unusual clothing and walked a short distance to a village. He spent about thirty minutes inside a few houses and left.’

  ‘Did your contact manage to get GPS coordinates?’ Harry asked.

  ‘My contact would not have known what they were, and he would not have asked. That’s too much detailed information – it would only raise suspicion. The helicopter flew up to the valley to just before Baharak and then headed south-west, past Dasht and, finally, into a remote village. It was extremely isolated.’

  ‘It has to be the same place,’ said Harry. ‘They were checking their handiwork. They wanted to know if they had been successful.’ He was sure that they had a clear connection between Sam Haberman, the brilliant geneticist, and Samir, the almost certain perpetrator of the trial in Afghanistan. Steve speculated if they were one and the same person.

  Ed Small was on the phone later in th
e day with Steve discussing the situation. ‘This can only mean one thing. They are ready to use the virus, wherever and whenever they want.’

  ‘Are Yanny and Phil staking out Hafeez? Have they seen Haberman?’ Steve asked.

  ‘They’re in place, although they haven’t seen anyone as yet.’

  ‘What do we know about this virus? We could just walk past it,’ Steve asked.

  ‘You’re right. I’ll get an expert, the fool who worked with Haberman at CDC. He won’t like it, but that’s not my problem. He’s facing at least ten years in the slammer for his enthusiasm, a decent guy, idealistic. He saw Haberman as a friend, even invited him to his wedding.’

  ‘Where will you send him to?’

  ‘Tel Aviv is probably the best. Uri’s been given a clear hand, no questions asked,’ Ed replied.

  ***

  As expected Paul Montgomery, the Senior Director for viral diseases at CDC was not happy when he received the phone call.

  ‘Montgomery, you’re on a flight to the Middle East. The Starlifter that you sent into Afghanistan for the American doctor is sitting at the end of the runway in Atlanta waiting for you.’ Ed Small was firm in his request.

  ‘I can’t go. My work here is too important. Besides, I’ve not had the vaccinations, and my wife is having visitors over tonight.’

  ‘Look here, Montgomery, you’re facing a possible twenty years in a prison where the convicts are beefy and frustrated. You’ll seem very desirable. Are you getting my drift? You’ve got two hours to go home, pack a suitcase, toothbrush and be out to Dobbins Air Base in Marietta. I’m sending a car for you. It will be outside your office in ten minutes.’

  Montgomery was there when the car pulled up, shaking and close to tears. Nobody had spoken to him in that manner before. He had hoped his compliance would have put him in the clear, but he could see that he was in as much trouble as any one man could be. He had no option but to tell his wife to be quiet when she started to shout. The table was laid, the guests were coming, and he was he flying off to somewhere.