by Randy Dutton
“You say you contacted the Maldives government? I have met a couple officials through my boss. Perhaps I know one of them?” she asked. Interrogation is easy when the contact didn’t know it’s being done.
“There was this high official named Hassan, who was a little nervous when we confronted him. He handles their research science,” Tom said.
“Hassan,” she pretended to consider the name, and now understood Hassan’s nervousness, “I have never heard of him,” she lied.
“Well, earlier today we showed him a copy of the report. He claimed it was all lies. We know the Maldives government had gotten the UN to disallow its inclusion into their consideration, but we can’t find out who’s driving this action,” Tom added.
“We did find out this Hassan seems to be fairly wealthy for a Maldivian official on a government salary,” Art said.
She perked up. “How would you know of his money?”
“We saw him at the UN conference. And during our dinner at the ocean restaurant, we saw him leave on his boat,” Art said. “It was a very expensive boat tied up along the catwalk just 90 meters away, and it was sleeker than the typical boats in the harbor. Faster boats usually burn more fuel, which requires more money.”
“And how do you know it was his boat?” She was concerned her accomplice was too open about the payments.
“It was his mannerisms...his directness to the crew...his dominance. I wonder if an investigation would reveal what’s really going on?” Tom considered. “Besides, he had a picture of the boat on his desk.”
“I see,” she said, while thinking, Perhaps Hassan’s a liability. These are guys who don’t utter idle thoughts—they usually act on instinct, and they have money behind them. “I am sorry. I must leave, my boss must be waiting for me.” She stood, placed money on the table, and started walking.
“It was a pleasure talking with you Maria,” Tom said, “and I would like to add that your English is quite exceptional.”
She turned and gave them a broad smile. “English is an official language of the UN. My job depends on my understanding it. Adios y tener un viaje seguro.” She walked out the door.
“Intriguing woman...” Art said. “But something’s odd about her.”
“She certainly has attractive features, but what’s odd?”
“Her skin tone was too consistent.... I could swear the skin color had been applied.”
“Well, we’ll never find out, will we?”
“Probably not,” Art laid money on the table. The two men left the restaurant, in a different direction than the woman.
Worry now infected Maria. Her pulse had increased slightly as she headed southeastward towards the center of Malé.
Lost in a whirl of thoughts, she considered her next course of action.
Why would Hassan have put a picture of the boat on his desk? Didn’t I warn him not to display any signs of wealth? Who’s at fault? Should I really have expected him to be so discrete? Who else knows? How can I deflect attention from what comes after?
A mischievous smile formed.
Three minutes after ending the call, she glanced at cell phone clock and closed it.
I’m sure it will work. Nothing like an adrenalin rush to conjure up a viable plan...risk always stimulates creativity. The plan’s not flawless but if something goes wrong, I’ll adapt again. I would have made a great battlefield general.
She rolled her head and flexed her back, the actions causing some slight pops, and widening her smile. Ah, much better. Now to kill some time.
Still in the guise of Maria, she walked three blocks to Sultan Park, which contained the Maldives Art Museum. A stroll around a circular paved sidewalk allowed her to admire the Maldives Symbol, a beautiful stainless-steel sculpture. It sat in a concrete water fountain placed on the small roundabout. The six-meter sculpture was brightly polished and reflected the brilliant sunlight. Her eyes followed the flat, half-meter stainless steel ribbon that rose, turned 90 degrees, then dipped slightly, wrapped itself twice around the straight stem, and culminated in a narrow point.
I like it. It’s simultaneously simple and complex. Looks almost like a musical note…or maybe it’s a bird. I’ve got to find out what it represents.
She walked one building over to the National Museum entrance and bought a ticket.
The exhibition represented the Maldives’ early history.
Strolling past the clothing and jewelry of earlier sultans, she studied the index cards associated with each. Less attention she gave to a Koran contained within a glass case and the numerous Islamic statues situated around the room. Her pace slowed with the monuments, such as the head of the Buddha from another island and carvings from their pre-Islamic era.
In another hall were paintings. She scoffed at what reminded her as elementary school art tacked onto a class bulletin board. Those she passed quickly.
A few pieces required more reflection.
She winced at one depicting a female pedestrian having been run down on a Malé city crosswalk.
It’s odd to see a painting reflecting bad driving – it’s original, if not a little crass.
A garish red canvas caught her eye on the far wall.
Now that’s bizarre!
She approached it warily. The untitled painting intrigued her. Contemplating it from various angles, raw emotions rose in her.
It’s...different—not elegant, maybe not even finished. The colors, the changing texture, the imagery...the raw emotion.
She stood alone in the gallery, staring.
It pulls me in...resonating in my soul.
Sadness overcame her and, for a moment, long-buried compartmentalized images flooded her mind – her childhood, her parents, and the life-altering event that had hardened her. These memories were followed by the violent actions and manipulations she had taken against others.
Her eyelids pressed together, forcing her mind to rebury the past, and leaving her with a tinge of regret for what she was about to set in motion.
She sighed. Do I still have a soul?
She started walking away from the painting, only to turn around and come back to it and stare for minutes longer. Why do I feel so connected to it?
Ten minutes later, unable to close a void, she asked the nearest attendant for the curator and, with an hour’s wrangling, she possessed the painting.
He can commission the artist to create a hundred new paintings with the money I gave him. It’s a win-win, though unscrupulous. Selling a piece of the museum is black-marketing – very illegal for both seller and buyer.
Making sure none of his staff were around, the curator removed the painting from the frame and rolled it up. Inserted into a tube, it now was ready to carry.
What a toothy smile he has! Maria thought. No doubt he’ll keep the whole amount. Too bad for the artist. She grinned. Can’t say I didn’t try.
She started to walk out of the gallery then turned back to the man. “What does the Maldives Symbol represent?” She broke out laughing when she heard the answer.
Outside the museum and beyond sight of the ticket counter, Marv, a stocky crewman from the Spider, was waiting. In his hand was a plastic shopping bag containing a small box wrapped with a ribbon. Without a word he handed it to her.
She, in turn, passed him the tube. “Put this in my stateroom.”
He nodded and left.
Two more stops to make, she thought.
While walking back towards the Palace, she made a cell call. “Señor Hassan, please would you meet me outside the south corner of the Bandara Mosque in five minutes? I do have need of your services again. Muchas gracias.”
She proceeded to the mosque, adjacent to the Palace grounds, arriving simultaneously with Hassan.
Smiling charmingly, she handed him the bag and asked her favor. She then passed him a business card inside a plastic sleeve, which he placed in his shirt pocket.
His eyes sparkled knowing her request just enriched him more.
Next
she walked to a district usually avoided by tourists.
Without hesitation she entered a dirty alley lined with dilapidated buildings – each with crumbling concrete walls and rusted metal roofs. A good working knowledge of Malé’s streets and subculture she deemed necessary for various contingency plans in affecting government policies. One faded blue building particularly interested her. With her right hand, she swept back a dusty blanket serving as a door and confidently walked inside.
Barely visible from the doorway’s dim light were three older men sitting on the floor. Wearing only shorts, they were tattooed and dirty, appearing to be derelicts sharing a smoking pipe. The pipe’s tube flowed through a water tub to cool the harsh vapor. The reek of hashish was overpowering, but Maria forced herself to ignore it.
She motioned the oldest man outside. Women were forbidden in such environments but, for this woman, the old man made an exception – he had worked with her before.
Standing between two buildings, in a gap fetid with the stench of urine, she explained exactly what he needed to do. She handed him a picture, then reached into her bag and pulled out a bundle of currency.
Bloodshot eyes glinted out from his darkened sockets as he reached for it greedily.
Before he could grab it, she held it higher. Staring into his eyes, she grinned, and spoke in a low threatening tone. His eyes widened, transfixed with fear as the switchblade in her left hand made its slight impression upon his neck.
Still grinning, she lowered the money into his hands, then pressed the spring-loaded blade against the wall to conceal it back into its handle.
Leaving the barrio, she contemplated her actions while peeling the liquid plastic film off her fingers that prevented prints and DNA from being transferred to handled objects.
Nothing’s going to stand in our way!
She strode back towards the harbor. Along the way, she passed the ex-Presidential residence, now turned into the gleaming blue, fourteen-story Ministry of Finance and Treasury building. Her smile widened at the thought of how much of Swanson’s money had ended up there over the past decade.
Crossing the ring road, she pulled out her cell phone.
The tender was idling dockside ten minutes later with Marv at the helm.
Maria step-hopped aboard.
The powerboat promptly backed off and did a quick spin towards the open ocean.
No sooner had the fast boat gone into a flat plane, than the dark-haired bronzed Maria stepped into the main cabin. Anna emerged minutes later into the rush of sea air, her tawny blonde hair in a ponytail and her skin returned to its fair complexion. The unflattering clothes had been replaced by a white blouse, tan capris, and deck shoes.
The megayacht loomed large just seconds away.
Chapter 9
June 16, 1500 hours
Malé, Malé Island, Maldives
The Spider was extremely comfortable. Its salon ambiance was further enhanced by the tropical birds and flowers recently returned from the island.
Within minutes of her return, she sat at a bistro table with a glass of Chateau Lafite-Rothschild 1995 First Grow Bordeaux. The Spider’s exquisite wine selection suited her – even more so than her own. Her iPod was playing Rondó Veneziano’s ‘I Grandi Successi’ through the lounge speakers. She loved this Italian group’s chamber music, but the title – ‘The Grand Successes’ – particularly amused her today.
While feeding one of the green macaws bits of a chicken sandwich, she contemplated her next move, which was to wait around a day to monitor progress. Holding out a piece of crust, she spoke to the bird, “Say...we gotcha!”
The Military Macaw responded, “Gotcha!...gotcha!...huuurreeckk...more!”
Anna smiled and rewarded her co-conspirator then sat down to get some work done.
The yacht had ample advanced communication equipment for her purposes, and a computer workstation was conveniently located in the salon. Activating her tablet’s biometric scanner, the computer files she needed were in a secure computing cloud, a type of Internet service allowing her access from any computer.
But global access created security concerns. Anna was no neophyte and only partly trusted Snath Corporation’s double-layer encryption used to protect cloud files from cyberthieves and government investigators. For her, prevention wasn’t enough. She added a more devious security tactic – scattering red herring files that would entice anyone penetrating her security to take certain actions. This was misdirection and a minefield. Once the bait was taken, the malware would report back the source, time, and method of penetration.
A security expert once asked her, “Which gives you more peace – scaring a burglar away until he figures out your weaknesses, or causing him to disappear permanently?” She had known the answer immediately. “Set a trap! Catch the rat. Send a message.”
From experience, she knew he was right. Years before, she had discovered a hacker in Moscow attempting to access her cloud files. Within a day of springing her trap, he received a visitor. Using the pseudonym Olga Svechinsky and a clever disguise, Anna seductively gained access to his lair, and then took the offense. Quickly subduing him, the four-day interrogation was intense and thorough. Depleted of resistance, he revealed the extent of his hacking, his associates, and most of his hacking accomplishments – from hacker tools to techniques.
When she was through with him, and confident his attempts had not been revealed to others, she disposed of his body.
Such was life – you play with fire, you get incinerated.
She scoffed at government inaction toward hackers in general. This is the conundrum of most government agencies. They’re always playing catch-up to the hackers. They may block attacks nine times, but miss the tenth. Governments have no real penalties and eventually will suffer a loss of security. Thankfully, I have no such limitations.
While inserting notes about the conference, her thoughts wandered to warfare strategy and her long ago reading of Sun Bin's ‘Art of War’. Aren’t his teachings as relevant today as they were 2,300 years ago? Swanson once professed Sun Bin as a better strategy model than that of his relative, Sun Tzu. He’s right. After all, Sun Bin believed in siege warfare, and isn’t that what Operation Prion is all about?
Movement caught her attention. Anna’s eyes shifted from the tablet to the macaw’s changed focus, which was on something behind her. Instinctively, her left hand slid from the tablet to touch the place setting knife handle.
A submissive voice cleared his throat a few meters behind her. “Miss Anna, the captain requests to know your pleasure? Do you wish to be taken anywhere?”
Her fingers relaxed off the impromptu weapon. She swiveled her computer workstation chair to level a stern glance at the nervous ship’s steward who had interrupted her concentration to bring her a tray of appetizers and another glass of wine.
She exhaled. “No. I’m good.... Next time, announce yourself as you enter!” Her head motioned to the young man to put the tray down next to her.
“Sorry, miss,” he stammered.
Her attention shifted to re-aiming a tripod mounted cylindrical camera at the Malé Harbor. The very small zoom camera was attached by a long USB cable to her tablet. That allowed her to zoom, focus, and view the target in a window while doing other work. But it wouldn’t automatically reposition the lens to counter the yacht’s slight movement.
Her third glass of wine was half empty when Hassan’s boat finally left the harbor. Three hours had passed since her stakeout had begun and her nerves were getting jittery. Until then, her mind had raced with scenarios that included Hassan discovering the package’s contents, him being detained, or that he decided just to skip the assignment and pocket the money.
With the speedboat now on its way, and his presence visually confirmed, her mind shifted from anxious to eager.
Traveling at 35 knots and heading in her general direction, she waited until its closest approach. At one klick from the Spider, she emoted a slight smile, glanced around t
o ensure privacy, and stepped to the salon deck railing.
“Goodbye Hassan,” she said in a soft voice. “You served us well...and what must now happen is for the greater good.”
Holding the transmitter in her right hand, Anna pressed the button. Nothing much would happen for 60 minutes, until the now-activated timer hit zero.
With a flick of her wrist, she dropped the wireless device over the side where it would disappear into water too deep for recovery.
Seeing Anna standing near the rail a few minutes later, the porter re-emerged. “Mademoiselle, will there be anything else?”
“Yes.” She turned. “Tell Fidel to meet me in the gym. I feel like some sparring.”
Walking back into the salon, she logged off, took her tablet and went to change.
Moonlight shimmered on the rippled inter-island water. Anna turned from the conference room windows to dim the inside lights. This accentuated the twinkling of the small boats ferrying workers between the many islands.
Dressed comfortably in a aquamarine scoop neck tee and khaki shorts she sat at the head of the oval table. She activated Swanson’s monitor, and started typing instructions to Devon.
In the background a multiband radio chattered, its periodic shortwave broadcasts were routine maritime conversations.
A half-hearted smile formed when the radio traffic erupted in stressed alerts about a tragic boating accident. She sipped a cola while her attention focused on the broadcast details.
Minutes later she switched to a local news station. “...powerboat disappeared in 50-meter water about 80 kilometers from Malé. It was owned and operated by a government official involved with the UN meeting, his name being withheld pending notification. It is believed there are no survivors, but because of the shallow depth, it is hopeful wreckage can be retrieved. An investigation into the tragedy has been launched....”
She pressed an intercom button. “Please have Marv meet me in the conference room.”