Sitting at his desk, Hafiz checked his e-mail. He was startled by the sight of the return address on the padded mailer. It was familiar, a book store in New Jersey. Paper-clipped to the magazine inside was a short note on the bookstore letterhead.
"Mr. Brady," the letter began. "Enclosed is the back issue of Chemistry of Materials Journal you requested, with the article on single wall carbon nanotubes. If you require any other back issues of periodicals or any out-of-print books, we would be happy to provide them." The signature was illegible.
Hafiz locked the office door before slitting the binding with a penknife and removing the article the letter indicated. From his private bathroom he took a bottle of aftershave and poured some in a glass. He dipped a paintbrush into the solution and applied the wet brush to the paper. The invisible writing between the lines of print slowly became visible. It was a technique as old as lemon juice or milk, and still one of the most reliable. All the chemical orders from the front companies came in online, like any business. But Amir always lectured about the Americans’ ability to intercept communications, and he always refused to use electronic means for anything important. Hafiz had to stop and get the one-time code pad he kept hidden behind the bookcase, and some graph paper.
The message was interminably long—it ran on for the entire article—and took over an hour to decode. He called his secretary on the intercom and told her to hold all his calls. When he was done he sat back in his chair, stunned. He nearly forgot to burn the article and the sheet from the onetime pad. With the office door still locked and only his desk light on, he studied the message four times, hoping he was wrong—that somehow he had decoded it improperly. It was no use, nothing was the matter with it.
You knew you wouldn't be here forever, he told himself. They have an objective worth the price of your operation, and so your operation is expendable. One more mission, and back to Iran. He paused for a moment, aware that he had not been thinking of Iran as home.
To get his mind off those thoughts, Hafiz started to do what was familiar—listing the tasks he had to accomplish, deciding how he would accomplish them, and assigning them priorities and completion dates. They had been given very little time. I will have to do the most work, he thought bitterly, because I am the only one who looks American.
After tapping his pen on the desktop for a good minute, Hafiz pressed the intercom. "Jean, please get me Mehdi at the warehouse."
"Yes, sir. Oh, Mr. Brady, you have several messages."
"I'll look at them later. Oh, and after Mehdi get me Hi-Speed Trucking."
"Right away."
Both calls came through, and in the midst of innocuous business conversation Hafiz gave Mehdi and Mahmoud the code word signaling an immediate meeting. Then he took a road atlas down from the bookcase. He had never been to North Carolina. There hadn't been any reason to until now.
But he could see it immediately. The most sparsely populated beachfront on the eastern seaboard, but not the Outer Banks where access to the mainland would be a problem. Far enough north that most of the beach properties were rentals or summer homes. Few people would be about in the winter.
* * *
The Hi-Speed Trucking Company was located in Tysons Corner, Virginia, just north of Merrifield. It was a small office and garage that housed two panel trucks and two flatbeds, all duly certified for handling hazardous cargo. Mahmoud and Ghulam were both the owners and sole employees. Whenever they needed another driver or a helper, they got someone from a temporary firm.
Ghulam was sitting on the floor of the garage, busy packing shipping cartons. Scattered about were reels of electrical wire, boxes of twelve-volt lantern batteries, soldering kits, and other odds and ends. Larger items included four huge industrial-sized glass mixing bowls and stacks of metal garbage cans. Standing near the wall were twelve cylinders of acetylene gas. Adding to the clutter were piles of green one-piece coveralls in various sizes. Boxes of gloves, both rubber and leather, were piled nearby. Ghulam looked at the floor, his packing list, then finally at the still-empty cartons, and sighed in resignation.
The buzzer on the rear door to the garage began ringing. Ghulam stuck a pistol in his belt and quickly walked over to look through the peephole. Ghulam was short and chunky, with a round face that exuded good humor and made him look younger than his twenty-seven years. After a quick glance he opened the door for his partner, Mahmoud, who entered pushing a hand truck piled high with boxes. Mahmoud was Ghulam's opposite: tall; lean; and older, at thirty-two.
"You should, have backed the truck in here and then unloaded it," Ghulam said.
Mahmoud waved his hand dismissively. "And where would I put the truck?" he asked, gesturing toward the litter on the floor. "Stop your nagging and help me unload. You sound like an old woman."
"An old woman! You should be shut up in here packing all this junk. You took your time getting the radios."
"The operational fund is almost empty," said Mahmoud, ignoring him. "We will have to get more funds from Hafiz when he returns from North Carolina."
"Are we still leaving next week?"
"Yes, I made all the preparations, just as if we were going on vacation." Mahmoud slapped his fore-head." That reminds me," he said, checking his watch. "Mehdi is expecting me to pick up the chemicals." He took a clipboard from the desk and started out the door.
"Fine, just fine," Ghulam shouted after him. "I'll do this all myself."
It was a fifteen-minute drive to the warehouse. Mahmoud parked in one of the docks assigned to ITA Chemical and went up to the offices.
The ITA office door was locked. Mahmoud rattled the doorknob, then resorted to knocking. After a few seconds it opened a crack, and Mehdi peered out. Upon recognizing Mahmoud, he gave a look of relief and opened the door.
"What were you doing?" Mahmoud asked, gesturing toward the flickering computer.
"Just wiping the hard drive," Mehdi replied. He had a pale, bookish face that was set off by an impressive nose. His glasses looked tiny perched upon it. "No sense in leaving anything behind."
"I parked outside dock 1," Mahmoud said. "Is that all right?"
"Fine. The chemicals arrived this morning, and I prepared all the paperwork."
They walked out of the office and downstairs to the warehouse floor. It was deserted.
"I sent all the workers home," said Mehdi. "I told them there were no more orders for the day and since the inventory work had been done they could go. I was a hero."
"I am sure," Mahmoud said politely.
In the outbound loads section they came upon a pallet of plastic drums with labels warning of corrosive materials.
Mahmoud examined the stenciled identification on the drums, then checked the packet of invoice papers. Concentrated nitric acid and concentrated sulfuric acid. He'd handled them before.
On the other side of the loading bay, a safe distance from the acid, were two nylon bags about the size of the box a kitchen stove might come in. On each corner were nylon loops so it could be picked up by the arms of a forklift. The bags were full of a solid powder. Penta…penta.. . "How do you pronounce this?" he asked, pointing to the name of the chemical. Mehdi told him.
Mahmoud shrugged. "I still haven't figured out why we need this," he said. "What is it used for?"
"Many things," said Mehdi. "Paint, lubricants, plastics."
"Anything else?"
"Yes. Explosives."
Mahmoud broke into a smile. "Now I see."
"Keep it to yourself. I should not have told you."
"I will, don't worry."
Mehdi opened the sliding door of the loading dock and they loaded the drums, carefully strapping them into the back of the truck. After that the bags of powder.
"What if the acid leaks?" Mahmoud asked.
"Run," said Mehdi.
"So you are saying I should drive carefully," said Mahmoud.
"It would not be a bad idea," Mehdi replied. "Would you like some tea?"
"No, thank you,
" Mahmoud said quickly. "We still have much to do back at the garage."
"Have all your purchases been made?"
"We did the last today. And what of you?"
"I purchased the house in Fredericksburg yesterday."
"Ghulam told me. But why a farm?"
"It isn't really a farm," Mehdi explained. "It's the biggest lot in a development that used to be a farm. It's close to Washington, on Route 95, and the lot gives us some distance from the nearest neighbors. We can use the barn to hide the vehicles. After all, a lot of cars parked around a suburban house every day would attract attention."
"I didn't think of that," Mahmoud said. "What are you doing tonight?"
"I have to pack. I accumulated so many possessions here, it will be much trouble disposing of them."
"I know what you mean," said Mahmoud. "Well, I must go."
"God go with you."
"And you."
Before he pulled out, Mahmoud flipped the diamond-shaped signs mounted on all four sides of the truck to display the black and white placards that warned of a corrosive substance. Leaving the warehouse complex, his shipping papers were checked. The guard remembered him.
"Working late tonight?" the guard asked cheerfully.
"Last run of the day," Mahmoud told him.
"Hell of a thing with those Iranians," the guard stated. "You come from over there, don't you?"
"Those bastards!" Mahmoud spat. "Animals, that's all they are. I could tell you stories you wouldn't believe. We barely got out of there in time, and lucky we did."
"Must have been rough," the guard said sympathetically.
"It was terrible. But we made it over here, and if you work hard you can do all right in this country."
"Wish there was more that felt that way," said the guard.
Mahmoud waved as he pulled out. "Everything turns out for the best," he shouted.
CHAPTER 10
The observation windows on the bridge of the freighter MV Treccano Volturno were wide open, and the bridge crew was enjoying fresh ocean air for the first time in a week. The Volturno, owned by Treccano Company of Italy and home ported in Naples, had just cleared the port of Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, after taking on a cargo of textiles. The harbor pilot's launch could be seen in the distance, heading back to port, and all hands were settling down into the change of routine from port to sea. The midmorning sun had burned off the haze, and the humidity was oppressive.
Gennaro Allessandro, the Volturno's captain, was in good spirits this day, as if glad to be back at sea. In his rough way he joked with the sailors on the bridge, inquiring about the venereal diseases he was convinced they had acquired. The sailors joked back, friendly but not familiar. The captain was amiable but rigidly strict about duty.
The radar operator interrupted the joking. "Captain, there is a small boat approaching at high speed, bearing 240 degrees."
Captain Allessandro quickly turned serious. "Small craft approaching two-four-oh," he boomed to the lookouts. "Can you see it?"
The lookouts trained their binoculars on the heading. "I see something small on bearing two-four-zed," one shouted. "Too far away to tell what it is."
The captain consulted his chart and the radar. "Still in Malaysian territorial waters," he murmured. "Should not be any trouble this close to shore."
The bridge crew exchanged more glances. Pirates had made their living in the Strait of Malacca and around the Indonesian and Philippine Islands for many hundreds of years. These days they were modern, organized, well armed, and well equipped. Ships would disappear and then turn up a few months later in Chinese ports with new paint and new names. But no crew.
The captain made his decision. "We will not become upset until we know what is going on." He turned to a crewman. "All officers to their stations," he said calmly. The crewman rushed off, considerably more anxious.
The lookout shouted again. "It is a patrol boat," he shouted. "Malaysian Police." The naval contingent of the Malaysian Police served as the country's customs and coast guard.
"Is the boat genuine?" the captain shouted back.
"It has all the markings," the lookout replied. "The lights are flashing, and there are uniformed police on deck."
"Sons of whores," swore the captain. "What could they want? We cleared customs without any problems." He swept his gaze around the bridge. "If anyone on this ship is the cause of this, I will feed him to the fish," he said grimly. For all his joviality, the captain was a Sicilian and could terrify the crew whenever he wished to. The sailors turned to their duties with more than usual concentration.
The first officer walked onto the bridge. "Do you know what they want, Captain?"
"No, they have not contacted us yet, and I have no intention of calling them first."
The first officer shrugged. "Are there any other ships in the area?" he asked the radar operator.
"No," said the crewman.
The first officer made a gesture of bewilderment. "Then we can only wait."
The radio crackled. "Treccano Volturno, this is Royal Malaysian Police. Heave to and drop your ladder, we intend to board. Over." The message was in serviceable but heavily accented Italian, then repeated in excellent public school English, obviously a colonial by-product. The captain, a good Italian Socialist, did not approve of such vestiges of imperialism.
The first officer looked up from a reference book. "British-made Vosper small patrol boat. It checks out."
The captain took up the radio. "Malaysian Police, this is Treccano Volturno. What is the meaning of this? Over."
"Routine investigation. Over." the radio crackled.
"But we have already cleared customs," the captain protested into the handset. "You are putting us behind schedule."
"We say again, heave to and drop your ladder. Over."
The captain snorted into the microphone. "Very well, we are complying. Out." He spoke to the helmsman. "Speed one third."
"Speed one third."
The captain turned to the first officer. "Well, drop the ladder. We will find out what they want."
It took some time for the accommodation ladder to be mounted and swung over the starboard side. The metal stairway ended in a platform just above the water, which was draped with old tires to protect the finish of whatever it came in contact with. The police boat pulled alongside, pressing the corner of its bow firmly against the tires, engines churning to maintain contact with the platform.
The first officer stood on the deck at the top of the ladder, waiting for them. Show them what they want, Marco, the captain had said. Call me if necessary or if they want to take someone away. Hurry them along if you can.
One by one, the policemen cautiously jumped from the bow of their craft onto the platform. There were four in police uniform, and eleven in green battle dress. The first officer noted with some alarm that all were carrying submachineguns.
They tramped up the steps, which bounced frighteningly against the side of the ship. The head policeman stopped at the top of the ladder, tossed a casual salute at the Italian ensign on the stern and another, contemptuous one, at the first officer.
"Permission to come aboard?" he asked in English, as if he did not have fourteen heavily armed men behind him to guarantee permission.
"Permission granted," said the first officer in good English. He saluted nervously. "Welcome aboard." The man didn't look Malay, the first officer thought. But he wasn't sure, there were a hundred different racial groups in the country. He could be Indian.
The policeman gave a signal, and his comrades ran past him and the first officer, spreading out through the ship.
The first officer was flustered. "But…but," he sputtered, "this is not necessary. I am prepared to guide you anywhere you wish."
The policeman smiled and pointed a SIG-Sauer P226 automatic pistol at the space between the first officer's eyes.
"There is no need," he said. "You see, she is ours now."
After several large duffel bags were loa
ded from the police boat onto the Treccano Volturno, the craft swung away and headed back to the coast. The police boat would be guided to some isolated inlet and returned to those who had provided it. The providers may have been moonlighting civil servants, or independent entrepreneurs, or a mixture of both. They simply delivered the boat, accepted a substantial payment, and then disappeared.
Most of the Voltumo's crew was locked away in quarters. The officers were held in the wardroom. Those working on the engine and other necessary equipment were under guard. The captain was left on the bridge.
Captain Allessandro did not make any noisy protestations about his ship and his authority or demand to know who his captors were and by what right they had done what they did. Growing up in Sicily he had learned that hard-eyed men with machineguns are always the ones in charge and do whatever they please.
The head "policeman," Lieutenant Commander Khabir of the Revolutionary Guard naval contingent, had changed into jeans and a T-shirt, taken from one of the duffel bags. In his belt he still carried the SIG-Sauer pistol.
Khabir did not introduce himself. "Captain," he said, "we are now in complete control of your ship. We intend no harm toward you or your crew unless you hinder us."
"You are holding us hostage," the captain stated.
"No, as a matter of fact, we are not," Khabir said. "We are merely going to travel with you to your next destination, which is the port of Wilmington, North Carolina, in the United States, is it not?"
The captain, surprised, nodded yes.
"Then," said Khabir, "once we reach U.S. waters we will have you divert slightly from your course. It will be no trouble. After that we will slip away one night and leave you in peace. In the meantime my people will supervise your crew and yourself. They will handle the ship's radar and communications and serve as lookouts. Simply do as we command and you will not be harmed. However, any attempt to warn or signal other ships, any failure to follow our orders to the letter, or any attempt to interfere with us will result in one of your crew being shot for each offense. Do you understand this?"
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