The Sienna Sand

by Jeff Siebold

  * * *

  The Gun Runner eased into Calibogue Sound just south of Hilton Head Island and worked its way north at an easy pace. Daufuskie Island was on its port side, and Harbor Town on the starboard. The Gun Runner was the largest yacht in the area, and was therefore assigned the last berth, docking at the end of the long pier. The captain slid the boat along its mooring and reversed the engines; two mates jumped off and tied the lines to the cleats on the wooden dock.

  “She’s secure,” called one of the mates.

  A few moments later the gangplank was lowered and most of the crew members walked down the pier, most chatting and some carrying a tote bag with the ‘Gun Runner’ logo on its side. The pier led to the Harbour Town Marina, a circular area surrounding the boat slips and populated with patrons enjoying the restaurants’ outdoor seating.

  Umbrella tables and cushioned wrought iron chairs provided protection from the sun. Most of these tables were occupied by families of four to six people enjoying seafood and an early cocktail. The kids appeared to be eating unidentifiable sandwiches and French fries.

  Julia Conners walked briskly with three younger women, all talking as they navigated their way down the narrow pier. She looked around carefully and stayed toward the center of the group as best she could.

  Their route to the parking area took the crew through a locked door at the shore end of the pier, presumably installed for the privacy of the boat owners and along the concrete apron that held the restaurant tables. Dressed in navy blue Izod shirts, khaki shorts, and Sperry deck shoes, the group looked like they were wearing school uniforms. Julia Conners’ matching navy duffel with its khaki trim seemed to emphasize the point.

  “When do we go out again?” asked one of the girls in the group.

  “I’m not sure I will,” said another. “Too creepy.”

  “You mean G?” said the first. “He does like a party.”

  “Yeah, you’ve gotta get past that part,” said another. “It’s a nice boat, though.”

  “Don’t let the captain hear you calling it a boat!” laughed Julia. “He’ll die of a heart attack!”

  The group passed through the pier security door, holding it open and handing it back to those trailing them. Then they were on the concrete, skirting the eating area, staying close to the marina water.

  A small, wiry man was hosing down the deck of his cabin cruiser as they walked by and the spray misted lightly in the hot air. One of the girls said, “Do you want to get something to eat here?”

  Another said, “No, can’t afford it. I’ll eat when we get back on board.”

  “Are you leaving us here?” one girl asked Julia. “You’ve got your duffel and all.”

  Julia said, “I have a friend who lives near here. I’ll be back before we sail again in a few days.”

  The girl nodded.

  “Excuse me, ma’am? You dropped these,” said a voice from behind them. Julia turned to see a small woman wearing white linen slacks, a pastel blouse, and sandals approaching them, holding out a set of car keys. Julia frowned and slowed for a moment so the woman could hear her.

  “No, they’re not mine,” she said, looking back and shaking her head.

  Turning her head forward again Julia was surprised as she walked directly into a man standing in her path who immediately wrapped his arms around her. She struggled against the man for a moment, but he held her tight.

  Julia extended her neck and tried to bite the man’s face or ear, but he lowered his head into the crook of her neck, protecting himself from her teeth.

  The woman with the car keys caught up and pulled Julia’s right hand back, attaching a handcuff to it. Then, hooking the open cuff between her thumb and first finger she levered the woman’s arm up between her shoulder blades. Julia grunted with pain and kneed the man. He was apparently wearing some sort of sports cup, because the kick was ineffective, and in another moment Julia’s left hand was attached to her right, behind her back.

  Simultaneously three large men jumped up from nearby tables and crowded around the woman, keeping her in place with their bodies.

  They deposited Julia roughly, face down on top of her duffel, and one of the men put his knees on her lower back, pinning her to the ground. He said, “FBI, ma’am. You’re Julia Conners and you’re under arrest.”

  * * *

  “It went well, then,” said Clive.

  “The FBI led the effort and we apprehended her. She knew my face, so we had to use some diversion. The FBI responded well and they kept the spectators safe,” said Zeke. They were talking by cell phone.

  “On Hilton Head,” said Clive. “I haven’t been there yet.”

  “You’ll like it,” said Zeke.

  “They’ll deport her, send her back to Ireland to stand trial,” said Clive. “Offenses against the State, you know.”

  “It was good of our FBI friends to step in and help with this.”

  “It was. This is not always something that garners the highest priority levels at the bureau, but they made an exception for us,” said Clive.

  “Well, she is a terrorist,” said Zeke. “And she’s wanted in Great Britain for crimes against the crown.”

  “So we all win. You and I and our Irish friends.”

  “Indeed we do,” said Zeke. “It’ll be enough to have her back in Ireland and in prison for her crimes.”

  “She’ll be in Her Majesty's Prison Maze for quite a while,” said Clyde nodding in agreement.

  * * *

  “You’re going to prison for a long time,” Zeke said. “The FBI and the Coast Guard took the Gun Runner into custody just after we arrested you. They found quite a stash of money and illegal weapons on board.”

  Julia Conners looked across the table at him. Her crew outfit had been replaced with a prison jumpsuit and without makeup she looked pale and plain. She shifted in her seat.

  “Perhaps,” she said. “But I doubt there’s enough to hold me for long. I was hired as a deck hand. I didn’t know anything about the rest of it.”

  “The yacht is owned by Byblos, LLC,” Zeke continued. Which is owned by Ghafran Khoury, a known gun runner.” He said it in a flat, disinterested voice.

  “I didn’t know,” she said. “I was hired as crew for a run down to St. Martin, that’s all.”

  “The FBI is also interested in you for your part in the money laundering,” said Zeke. “They’ll be by to chat with you about that.”

  Julia shrugged and looked away.

  “But I think the biggest hurdle for you, Julia, is the warrant against you in Ireland. For violations of the Offenses Against the State Act.” He let it float in the air between them.

  Julia looked up quickly, making sudden eye contact with Zeke. In that moment Zeke saw intense hatred in her eyes.

  “You’re not likely to see your daughter Erin again,” Zeke continued.

  Julia started at him, then she looked at the table top in front of her.

  “Perhaps you have something to say?” asked Zeke, politely.

  She waited a long moment before she said, “Get a federal prosecutor in here. I may have something to make a deal with. Something they’ll want to know.”

  * * *

  “Apparently they were in no hurry,” said Clive.

  The appropriate federal prosecutor from the office of the U.S. Attorney for the District of South Carolina took two additional days to arrive at the Women’s Correctional Center in Columbia, South Carolina. Then the FBI and the U.S. Attorney met with Julia Conners for four hours.

  “She was resigned to it,” said Clive. He’d heard back from his FBI contacts, who assured him that Julia was looking at a substantial prison sentence, either in the States or back in Ireland.

  “She gave up Khoury?” asked Zeke, sharing a table with him in Clive’s favorite D.C. pub, The Alibi.

  “Yes, Khoury senior, though,” Clive continued after sipping his black and tan. “According to Julia, he’s an international gun runner. And more…”
r />   “She seems averse to returning to Ireland,” said Zeke.

  “Seems that they’d welcome her home. Then they’d lock her up and throw away the key.”

  “Indeed,” said Zeke. “What specific intel did she share?”

  “It seems that she was privy to the sale of some automatic weapons. To an unfriendly nation. Or at least to the current regime.”

  “She gave it up?” asked Zeke.

  “A container ship was carrying the product from Xiamen, China directly to Venezuela. The rifles were actually manufactured inland in Long Yan in the Fu Jian Province, then driven to the port. And then they were loaded on a container ship owned by China Cosco Shipping,” said Clive.

  “It must have been a good number of rifles,” said Zeke.

  Clive nodded. “But Julia’s information was timely. The ship cleared the Panama Canal and sailed right into the arms of the U.S.S. Guam.”

  “The Guam’s an amphibious assault ship,” said Zeke.

  “Exactly,” said Clive. “They took the container ship in Panamanian waters. You Yanks seem to have a good relationship with the canal owners.”

  “It dates back to 1903,” said Zeke. “We actually ran the canal for almost a hundred years.”

  “Indeed,” said Clive. “I suppose there are strong allegiances still.”

  Zeke nodded. “I’m sure there are.”

  “The Chinese are mad as hornets about all this,” said Clive.

  “They are. So the guns never made it into Señor Maduro’s hands in Venezuela?”

  “Not even close,” said Clive. “The captain raised the white flag almost immediately. He was boarded and the ship was detained in Panama.”

  “Smart move,” said Zeke. “I’d have done the same. Those assault ships are intimidating.”

  “And the weapons were removed at the Port of Balboa. Under the watchful eye of a U.S. Marine Expeditionary Unit.”

  “And Julia?” asked Zeke.

  “She remains in custody,” said Clive. “She negotiated, traded that information for a lighter sentence here in the States. But Irish law enforcement will be interested that we have her. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were waiting for her at the prison door when she’s finally released.”

  “We can probably help that along, don’t you think?” asked Zeke.

  “It would be criminal not to,” said Clive with a wink as he finished his beer.

  * * *

  “So now the loose end is Ferman Khoury,” said Zeke. “He and his son, Ghafran.”

  “True,” said Clive. “They weren’t on the Gun Runner when the FBI boarded it. They’d been airlifted off before they got to Hilton Head Island. But the captain said that’s not unusual.”

  “Julia said that Ferman’s operation is international. He’s based in Manhattan, but he operates in eastern Europe, the Caribbean, and Central and South America,” said Zeke.

  “What type of weapons does he sell?” asked Clive.

  “Just about anything you’d want, if you were a drug lord. Or if you were organizing a coup. Or even if you were a dictator guarding against one,” Zeke said.

  “Playing both sides,” said Clive. He finished his black and tan and signaled for another one.

  “Khoury seems to have a long reach,” said Zeke. “Julia said he supplied the assault rifles the Coast Guard confiscated on the Mexican Narco-Sub in the Pacific.”

  “Delivering drugs north and guns south. It seems possible it was the Khourys, given the scope of their operation. Did Julia Conners say anything about that?”

  Zeke said, “Interestingly, one of Julia’s bargaining chips was the submarine,” said Zeke. “Apparently, there are several. They bring the cartel’s drugs up the west coast and return to Mexico with illegal arms,” Zeke said.

  “Did she have firsthand knowledge?” asked Clive. “Did she see that in action?”

  “She said no. She didn’t directly. Said she was only peripherally involved. But with what she’s told us, we may be able to track the next shipment of assault rifles back to their source. Which is probably tied to the Khourys.”

  “So Ferman has been selling guns to the Mexican cartel,” said Clive.

  “To the Mexican cartels, plural, most likely,” said Zeke. He swallowed the last of his drink and set the glass on a coaster. “I guess that’s our next priority, then.”

  Chapter 28

  Outside, the brownstone traffic had died down. The sun was setting, blocked from view by the tall buildings that cast long shadows across Manhattan. Ghafran Khoury waited inside the front doors for his limo to arrive.

  “They’re late,” he said, looking at his watch. The doorman looked through the glass doors anxiously, willing the private car to appear. He avoided eye contact with the young man.

  “I’m sure they’ll be right along, sir,” he said, checking his smart phone for any signs of communication. There were none.

  Ghafran said, “You’re new, aren’t you?” He pulled out his phone and started to text when the doorman, relieved, said, “Here they are!”

  The black Cadillac limo pulled smoothly to the curb, sharply angling into the space in front of the building, its back end blocking a lane of traffic. Horns started to blow almost immediately.

  Unperturbed, the driver got out and walked briskly around the car and stood by the back door, awaiting Ghafran’s approach.

  “About time,” Ghafran muttered as he walked out the front door. The car was a short fifteen feet away, and Saif, his bodyguard, stood at the door.

  Ghafran stopped suddenly, pulling up short as two men exited the red sedan that had stopped behind the limo and addressed the driver. One man pulled something from his inside jacket pocket and flashed it at the bodyguard, who shook his head and looked quickly at Ghafran. A warning, Ghafran thought, and he immediately turned to re-enter the building.

  The attentive doorman opened the door again. But then he stepped out, directly into Ghafran’s path.

  “What are you doing?” asked Ghafran. “Get the door. Open it. Get out of my way!”

  He looked over his shoulder at the limo with the three men standing and talking. Based on his body language, Saif had become agitated.

  Ghafran turned back to find the doorman standing still, squarely in front of him. His anxious smile was gone, replaced by a serious glaring expression.

  “You’re under arrest,” said the doorman.

  Ghafran felt rather than saw the two men from the limo crowd up behind him, their large bodies blocking any escape path. One of the men reached around and grabbed Grafran’s right forearm and twisted it behind him. The other man took Ghafran’s left forearm in both hands and pulled it aside. In a moment, Ghafran was wearing handcuffs. In another moment, he’d been hustled into the back seat of the red sedan, while Saif watched helplessly.

  * * *

  Ferman Khoury sat quietly in an antique chair in his brownstone, looking out over the city and reflecting. His cell phone rang.

  “How did the Coast Guard find the submarine?” he asked without preamble. “No one knew about those guns except me and the Mexicans, the cartel.”

  “We don’t know, sir,” said the voice of his personal assistant. “It wouldn’t have been from the cartel side, unless they turned someone in Mexico.”

  “Turned someone? You mean they had an informer?”

  “It happens,” said the voice. “But if it were from our side, who might it be?”

  “Not Ghafran, certainly,” said Ferman.

  “Of course not, sir,” said the voice.

  “And not you,” he continued.

  “No, not me. But Julia’s been detained…”

  “I can’t imagine Julia cooperating with the authorities. Or with the Coast Guard.”

  “No.”

  “But she’s been in custody for a week now,” said Ferman Khoury. “It is possible…”

  “But surely she understands the position this puts her in. The target she’s painted on her back…”

 
; Ferman’s phone blinked and chirped.

  “Hold on a moment, I have another call,” he said. He pushed a button and said, “Hello? This is Ferman Khoury.”

  “We have arrested your son, Ghafran Khoury,” said the new voice. Authoritative. Serious. “This is Special Agent Robert Blackmon with the FBI.”

  “Arrested?” sputtered Khoury. “Arrested for what?”

  “Dealing in illegal weapons, a violation of the National Firearms Act,” said Blackmon. “He was arrested thirty minutes ago and is presently in FBI custody.”

  “Where?” asked Ferman Khoury. “Where is he?”

  “We need you to give yourself up,” said Blackmon, calmly. “We have a warrant for you, also, on federal gun charges.”

  Ferman Khoury was silent.

  “We have FBI agents outside of your buildings right now,” said Blackmon. “I strongly advise you to surrender yourself to them.”

  “I’ll call my attorney,” said Ferman Khoury. “I’ll follow his advice.”

  “Mr. Khoury, I strongly advise you to descend to the lobby of your building and allow the agents there to take you into custody now.” The ’now’ was emphasized.

  Ferman Khoury hung up the phone, clicking back to his personal assistant.

  “Something’s come up. The FBI is here, asking for me. I have to go now.”

  “I understand, sir,” said the voice. “I’ll initiate the contingency plan.” And then he was gone.

  * * *

  The team sent to arrest Ferman Khoury was formidable, given the old man’s size and lack of mobility. Four Special Weapons and Tactics Team members in full tactical gear, helmets, and body armor stood in the lobby of the brownstone, their rifles leveled at the elevator doors. Six other FBI agents, armed and dressed in plainclothes, were positioned in the area, four outside the front door on the sidewalk and two others further down the block, one in each direction. A mobile communications van and an armored SWAT truck were parked in front of the building.