by Tom Haase
As they approached to the rear of the vessel in the shuttle boat, Yuri saw the Panamanian flag. The letters on the back of the ship displayed in barely readable white faded white letters the name Sea Pearl and its port of registry, Panama City. Yuri stared in amazement at the size of the vessel. The closer they came, the more immense the ship appeared. The shuttlecraft came alongside the Sea Pearl and they climbed a metal gangplank to the top and alighted onto the deck. A crewmember wearing blue dungarees, a blue open-collar shirt, and tennis shoes with no socks, approached, and in broken English muttered, "Follow me." He sported a clean-shaven face with a full head of dark hair and a ruddy complexion.
"Hey, what’s your native language?" Basam asked in English.
"Spanish."
"Where are you from?"
"Colombia." They followed the sailor up one deck. The man pointed to a door, and Basam opened it. Yuri looked in to see a small room that held all the necessary items for a comfortable living area. A double bed, two nightstands with small lamps, a single chair, a TV with a VCR, and a clock radio on the nightstand made up the comforts in the small room. A door led to a small bathroom with a little round porthole for some natural light.
Basam entered and placed the case and his small bag on the bed. The sailor touched Yuri on the shoulder and used his hand to give the "follow me" signal. They went down one deck and arrived at Yuri’s cabin. It mirrored Basam’s. He tossed his small duffel on the bed and closed the door. He felt at ease for the first time in days. Safe. At least for a little while, then came a knock on the door.
"Hello." Nothing. Yuri opened the door, and a sailor stood there with an outstretched hand that offered him a note. He took it, shut the door, and opened the folded piece of paper. The cursive Cyrillic script contained an invitation to dine with the captain at seven.
Before dinner, Yuri decided to explore the vessel. He walked along the outside walkway and then back to the tower at the rear of the massive vessel, about eight stories above the deck. He didn’t know then how big the container ship was or how much cargo it could carry. As he took his unguided tour, he saw the sailor from Colombia and approached him.
"Can you show me the way to the dining area where the captain eats?"
"Si, follow me."
They went up two flights above the open deck level and entered an area that, from the obvious cooking aromas filling the air and the way several tables were arranged served as a dining space. The yellow-painted steel walls contained no decorations, but a view of the ocean out of a long oblong Plexiglas window allowed natural light into the space. Yuri thanked his guide and returned to his cabin.
At seven, Yuri joined Captain Grigori Orloff, who sat at a small table in the corner of the dining area—the captain’s table. Yuri looked around for Basam but didn’t see him.
"Your friend will not be joining us," the captain said as Yuri took a seat. "I invited him but he declined. He agreed to pay a man to deliver his meals. Is he sick or something?"
"No. Not that I know of. I’ll speak with him. By the way, this is a big ship." Yuri gestured with his hands, spreading them apart. "I couldn’t believe the size. From shore it seemed large, but it’s really huge.”
"I’ll be glad to tell you about my ship, but first let’s get our food." The captain nodded to the cook and their meal started to arrive—crispy Greek salad, followed by fresh lamb and potatoes.
The two men ate. After they finished, the captain said, "We have a great chef on board."
"Yes, it is tasty, the best I’ve had in days," Yuri said. The captain sat back, signaled for coffee, and took out a cigar. He offered one to Yuri, who declined and took out his cigarettes. After clipping the end off the Havana, the captain licked the entire length of the curled tobacco before touching it with the flame of his lighter.
"This ship was built in Korea by Hyundai Heavy Industries in 1995 and bought by the company in 1996. She is what they call a post-Suezmax vessel. That’s why we’re going around the cape in South Africa since the ship will not transit the Suez Canal. We’re too large. With a length of nine hundred sixty-four feet, and forty-four point five feet below the waterline when she’s full, it’s not possible for us to go through that canal. If you’re interested, I’ll have Mr. Martinez, my first mate, show you around the ship and give you more technical information. He speaks perfect English."
“I would appreciate that, Captain. Could you have him knock on my door tomorrow morning when he’s free? I’ll wait for him," Yuri said. "Is it okay if we speak Russian when you and I are together?"
"Of course, Mr. Borisov."
"My name is Yuri," he said.
"Grigori. Tell me, Yuri, where are you going?"
"To America, with you." Yuri laughed at his attempt to be humorous.
"I could see that you were in an awful hurry to get out of Yemen. Did you have a problem there?" The captain raised one eyebrow.
"No. No problem there."
"Good. I’m glad to hear that. I don’t want to get a signal from some Yemeni police that you’re a fugitive."
"I can assure you that will not happen. Where are you headed with all the containers on deck?"
"We came out of Kuwait, and we’re going to the United States. We’ll be there in about two weeks if we keep on schedule. First to Savannah, Georgia, for one day, then to Baltimore, Maryland, to deliver the rest of our current cargo. We’ll be there for a few days, since we need some minor repairs."
Grigori took a big puff from his cigar, exhaled the blue smoke away from Yuri, and tapped the ashes into his saucer under the coffee cup. "After that, I assume we’ll head back across to somewhere in Europe to deliver the goods we’ll pick up in the States. I won’t get specifics until the repairs are completed. These ships can’t sit idle with cargo on board. It’d cost the owners too much. A computer program will determine the most efficient use of this vessel’s capacity, and where we’ll go for a pickup after our maintenance, and then we’ll deliver it wherever they specify. Sorry for going on a bit."
"No, no. Not at all. Grigori, will there be any problem when we get to the United States?" Yuri took a few drags on his cigarette followed by a sip of his coffee.
Before answering, the captain blew a smoke ring, allowing it to drift toward Yuri. "There could be. I can do some talking with the port authority to avert attention from your debarkation . . . ahh, but the price would be high. Add another thirty thousand to my account. Additionally, you have no papers to get out of the port area."
"Fine, but no questions about us, where we were or what we do." Yuri mentally calculated the interest that would accrue on his ten million while they steamed at sea. It would almost cover the thirty thousand.
"For that price, I lose my curiosity and you gain my silence while on board," the captain admitted.
Yuri stubbed out his cigarette, got up and extended his hand to the captain. He would work on solving the paperwork problem later. He walked out of the dining area to visit Basam. When he knocked on his door, he heard, "Come In."
He opened the door and found Basam lying on his bunk, watching a video on the television. From the glimpse Yuri got of the screen before Basam shut it off, a man’s hands were fondling two large breasts. Basam got up quickly and looked at his visitor.
"What’s going on?"
"Well, I got us a ride all the way to the States," Yuri said and related the conversation with the captain. "I will solve the papers problem before we arrive in Savannah. But you. Why are you staying in here instead of coming to dinner?"
"Yuri, I’m going to deliver this bomb to a target in America. You’ve gotten us a ride there, and we’ll get instructions on what to do. I’ll not leave this room and our weapon alone while we’re on this ship. I saw how a few of the men looked at the case. I’m sure they want to know what we have, since we were in dirty clothes and everything else was in duffel bags, except for a clean, large size case. I think they assume we’re smugglers or something."
"Come on, Basam. You ca
n’t live in this room for weeks. And I’m not going to babysit it every minute. Why don’t we ask the captain to lock it up for us?"
"No. Absolutely not. He’ll look inside it. That would be disastrous. Believe me, they want to know what we have. I’ll guard it."
"I think you’re being paranoid. We’ll be in America in two weeks. You intend to stay in this room all that time?"
"Yes. I have plenty of videos that were in the room, and I have books. You can get me more."
"Basam, you have to get some air, exercise, or something."
"No, I have decided. I’ll give you the codes so you can contact the people who sanctioned our operation in Saudi Arabia, and I’m sure they’ll have specific instructions for me. We can’t wait until we dock to get in touch. I mean it, Yuri. I’ll avenge my brother’s death. They have to pay for what they did."
"I hear you," Yuri said.
"Yuri, my brother never gave me much background on you, other than you two were together in Moscow at the university. Could you take a few minutes, now that we aren’t running for our lives, to tell me about yourself?" asked Basam. He went back and sat on the bed, putting the remote controller on the stand.
"There’s not a lot to tell," Yuri went and plopped into the single chair in the room. "I spent my youth at a seminary outside Kiev, preparing for the Orthodox priesthood. In those days, the Soviets made it difficult for my family when I went to the seminary. They were not in favor of any type of religious activity. During my time there, I became rather good in academics. I relished and loved various languages and multiple fields in mathematics. In the end, we lost our farm because of Soviet pressure, and my father died cursing the reds for destroying his livelihood and persecuting our religion."
He did not mention his secret determination to get the farm back with the money he’d received from his construction of the weapons, or his desire to go back to his village as a rich and powerful man. He did tell Basam that he possessed a natural gift for picking up languages, including the old languages used in the Bible. Yuri had become proficient, even to the point of being able to read the ancient koine Greek, Hebrew, and Aramaic without a dictionary. However, his real fascination centered on mathematics, and in that, he’d excelled.
"One morning in July, during the morning prayers at the seminary, I decided the religious life wasn't for me. There should be something more to life, and I wasn’t finding it there. So I went back to my little cell, packed up my few meager belongings and walked out, leaving nothing, saying nothing to anyone." He took out a cigarette and lit it.
"What about your family?" Basam queried.
Yuri took out the small flask and chugged a gulp of vodka the captain gave him after dinner, but he did not want to answer that question, and so he picked up the story where he thought best.
"Didn’t say a thing to anyone and eventually ended up at the Moscow State University, studying math, physics, and engineering. Before I’d completed my doctorate at the university, the military approached me to work as a nuclear design engineer.
"In those days, the defense departments system took care of the people it needed to maintain its lethal arsenal. I lived in a comfortable apartment in Moscow and received a personal computer as part of the job." He put the cigarette to his mouth, and inhaled.
"Where did you meet my brother?"
"We were taking the same economics class. Somehow we started talking during breaks and became friends." He took a few puffs on his cigarette.
Yuri passed over the fact that he’d loved to play with the encryption and other mathematical software programs that abounded in that arena of this emerging technology. He had mastered how to copy what seemed like vast quantities of information onto the small disks and discovered that he could copy music on this new media, as well as projects he worked on both at home and at work. He enjoyed playing with his computer more than spending time in the company of women. That instrument became his real love in life. The little machine understood languages, mathematics, physics, music, encryption, and any combination of them that he arranged.
"I have never been to Moscow. I wish I could speak Russian as well as my brother did."
"Your English is excellent. Where did you learn it?" Yuri asked.
"My father sent me to study at the London School of Economics. There I learned how interdependent the world’s economies are, and how oil is such a major component of that structure. That’s what got my brother, Tewfik, going on the idea of destroying its flow to the infidels. We almost got it accomplished. But, please, continue with your story."
"I lived a wonderful life until the demise of funding for the military. Paying jobs dried up for a nuclear scientist. I became unemployed, without income, without any way to leave Russia, and without any personal contacts to help get away or get a job. Your brother came to visit and offered me ten million dollars. He made it tempting. So I took it."
Ten million dollars had tempted him enough that it allayed the moral and the few legal scruples that he’d quickly considered. He’d lived through what the Chechen terrorists did to his country, and the thought of working for a terrorist seemed almost unthinkable—but for that much money he had no choice.
"All right. Enough for tonight. I’ll get on the Internet tomorrow and see what they have to tell us. Get some sleep," Yuri said. He left and went to his own quarters. Basam might hole up in his room, but he did not intend to spend his time on the ship in that manner. If Basam wanted to babysit the case, that was his decision, but Yuri wanted to explore the vessel and find out how it operated. Before they got to Savannah, he wanted to know as much as possible about the ship and how it worked—their safety might depend on it.
After he returned to his cabin, he thought about his current situation. He had made millions from building the weapons of mass destruction, but he did not consider himself a terrorist. The devices might change the course of history for some, and perhaps in the beginning he had done it out of fear that Tewfik al-Hanbali would kill him if he didn’t construct them. They’d paid him to do a job, and he soon realized these men needed him to be alive to build another WMD. He would never be poor again.
As he lay in his bunk, he imagined that when the weapon went off, if he did it right, the world would blame Russia because of the technology he’d employed to build it. He might even start World War III, but before then, maybe his country would get rid of its new "dictator" and try to be a real democracy. Did that make him a terrorist? No. He did it for money—not for an ideal, a country, or a god.
In the moments before he dozed off to sleep, in the back of his mind, he knew that someday soon, they would have to set off his atomic bomb. When and where currently remained unknown. At the moment, he felt safe for the first time since he’d left Moscow to take on the job of building the weapons. He swore that whatever he ended up doing in the future would make him more money.
Tomorrow he would contact the men who controlled Basam’s operation. At present, Yuri relaxed in the comfort and security of his bunk, safe from any pursuers.
7
Seven Days Ago — Leesburg, Virginia
Matt and Bridget prepared to go home for the night. They cleared off their desktops, locked the safe, and made sure they’d secured everything before leaving. Matt walked over to stand in front of Bridget.
“It’s been a nerve-racking forty-eight hours, including killing four terrorists, briefing the president, hearing the name Yuri, and receiving a mission to go after that terrorist we thought had been eliminated in Saudi Arabia. If that didn’t deserve a drink, what would?”
“You have such a succinct way of putting things. You left out getting shot.”
"Right," Matt said. "What do you say we go out for a little celebration libation? We’ve had an exciting two days and completed our first contract in our new business. Let’s go. I’m buying."
"Two seconds while I do a security sweep of the place."
A car pulled into the parking lot. Matt looked out the window and saw a
woman get out of the vehicle and she headed for their office. Her red hair became visible in the outside light, and Matt knew it must be Brigadier General Mary Jean Bergermeyer, director of the Center for Organizations and Operations at the Defense Intelligence Agency. That meant she directed DIA’s counterterrorist efforts, oversaw the training of the teams that conducted the operations, and made the tough decisions that no one else even wanted to know about. She’d served as their boss when they were on active duty.
The general walked up the steps and knocked on the locked door, and Matt went to open it. They all exchanged greetings. Matt said, "Okay, General, I’m sure this isn’t a social call."
"Actually, you’re only half correct. It’s a social slash business call. But first, let’s discuss the reason for my visit."
Bridget offered, "Ma’am, we’re just going out to get a drink to celebrate our first completed contract. Would you care to join us?"
"No, thank you. I’ll only take a few minutes of your time."
"Take all the time you need," Matt said. "Remember, we work for you now that the president has put us on Yuri’s tail. We don’t have a starting point yet. Does NSA or do you have anything on that?"
"On that, no. NSA is working on tracking the Russian, hoping he’ll use the Internet or check his email. You have my satellite phone number and I have yours. I’ll keep you posted on any intel I get on that topic. Actually, I wanted to discuss the trip to Dallas and the attack at the solar factory. On second thought, would it be all right if I changed my mind about a drink? I’ll have one."
"Diet Coke, Diet Cherry Coke, chilled water, or Gatorade? Limited menu," Bridget said.
"Diet Coke, please." Mary Jean went over and sat down at the vacant desk that Julia occupied during normal working day, but they were two hours beyond that now.