Gauntlet (11 page)

Suddenly Catherine’s brain woke up. “You know, I’ve heard of people doing this,” she replied. “We’ve got these automatic tellers everywhere now. In grocery stores, drug stores, 7/11’s, even Starbucks coffee shops have them. You put your cash in a little envelope and press a few buttons and you’re done.”

“Yup. It’s called ’smurfing.’ The easiest and oldest way to launder money. Little bit here, little bit there, no one’s ever the wiser. Even a clan of morons could legitimately put a lot of cash into the financial system this way. Just give each one of them $10 grand a day, and if you have 15 of them, you could quite easily put away half a million in a week. All expenses are paid for in cash. All it takes is 20 or 30 people, and none of them need to be overloaded with brains. It pretty much describes the Hallett/Lestage group.” Indy was almost jumping up and down in his excitement.

“Smurfing?” asked Catherine, thinking of little blue creatures in furry hats. “Did you say smurfing?”

“Smurfing. The Lestages and Halletts might be big-time smurfs. And with these numbers, in just this one account, we might be looking at a major operation. This could be indicative of a major league drug conspiracy. These characters may be able to lead us to the hole in the border. They may be involved in getting drugs into the States.” Indy was practically babbling now, jumping from one thought to the next without bothering to connect them.

“Oh, and here’s something else,” he added, reviewing the stack of printouts more closely. “Every couple of months we have close to half a million dollars withdrawn, electronically, and going to some other bank or institution.”

“Which banks?”

“Not sure. There are number and letter codes beside the transactions, but I don’t know what they mean.”

“I think they’re probably bank identifier codes. We ran into that in a commercial crime case that we dealt with couple of years ago. The banking people will be able to tell you.”

“OK Cath,” replied Indy. “I’ll call you back. Get some ideas down on paper about the manpower required to send people around western Canada for these deposits. And what it might mean for someone to be using that kind of manpower.” With that, he hung up, whirled around, and headed back into the bank.

Y
ARIM-DHAR was even more desolate than Zighan. It was located in the northern part of the vast Darfur wilderness, where the waves of desert sand met thousands of square miles of grassland. Sharp-edged sandstone pinnacles in shades of ochre and vermilion, some rising more than 1,000 feet above the plain, punctuated the limitless sand. Here the Sahel, desolate and remote, was separated from southern and eastern Sudan by the ancient basalt of the 10,000-foot Jebel Marra massif. This was an area ruled by tribes of nomadic Bedouin warlords with ever-changing loyalties. Each sought ultimate dominion over the surreal landscape, cut off from the rest of the world. Some of these ruthless groups were at the heart of the ethnic cleansing of non-Arabic peoples in northwest Darfur. The terrain, the climate, and the desolation were all similar to Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan, and the lawless Northern Frontier areas of Pakistan itself.

Richard viewed the lands below him with growing anxiety as the Night Hawk traveled ever further from its Mediterranean carrier base. It was no longer pure desert, but bleakness and oppressive heat still radiated from the rocky grassland below him. When they found the airport, it was really nothing more than a dirt strip adjacent to a rundown terminal no larger than a couple of Atco trailers put side by side, and a small fuel depot. One ancient Jeep was parked beside the terminal. Waves of heat were rippling from the small structures.

“OK, Clinton,” said Payton over the Com-Link. “Let’s set them down near the fuel depot.” There was an edge to his voice. Sudan north of Khartoum was lawless, in a continual state of anarchy, and subject to brutal, pitiless civil war. It wasn’t the kind of place he wanted to hang out.

“You betcha, Major,” responded Clinton. Both Night Hawks landed simultaneously, coming down in swishing vortices of sand. “Heads up, people. Safeties off and weapons ready. We have no idea what’s here,” he ordered his crew. “We don’t want another Somalia.”

“There’s only one Jeep,” observed one of the other men. “I don’t think it’ll be too bad. Can’t be more than one or two people here.”

“It only takes one to kill you,” said McMurray. “Least that’s what they teach you in the Army.”

“I’m going inside the terminal to see if a DC-3 came through here in the last few hours,” said Richard, opening the door of the helicopter and climbing out.

“Don’t think you’re leaving me here,” McMurray snapped. Stressful situations tended to make him even sharper than usual. “Someone has to make sure this damn thing goes right.” He jumped out of the chopper and followed Richard toward the terminal.

“Clinton, gather a couple of the guys, we’re going with them,” ordered Payton. “See what we can do about getting fuel. We’re on empty here. Thompson, get on the radio and let home base know we’re here and that we’re looking for fuel. Tell them it’s quiet, so far.”

Unbeknownst to Payton, a swarthy man inside the terminal had just made a short call of his own on his Sat-phone. “Two helicopters,” he said. “Maybe ten soldiers. Americans. Send the trucks.”

What that man didn’t know, in turn, was that the NSA had received a directive from the DDCI, just hours before, ordering them to monitor everything monitorable in southern Libya and northwestern Darfur. The NSA most definitely had that capability. Headquartered in Fort Mead, Maryland, the several thousand employees of the NSA worked within the second-largest building in the world (the Pentagon being the largest). If the NSA was ordered to monitor a specific region, it was all but done.

The problem with using a Thuraya Satellite telephone in the middle of a wasteland is that there are only a few such telephones within a thousand square-mile area. For this reason, the NSA’s mission was a very different proposition than monitoring the Islands of Indonesia, where there were almost 200,000 such devices, and millions of cell phones. With the warning that the agency had received, they had no problem picking up the call from the airstrip to the little village of Yarim-Dhar, about ten miles distant. One of the translators yelled at his supervisor the moment it happened. “It’s a set-up! They’re going to be attacked!”

The supervisor immediately relayed that to the executive director of his section, who relayed it to the DDCI’s office. The message went across to the Pentagon, and to the
Theodore Roosevelt
Battle Group in the Mediterranean. From there it was linked to the AWAC-2 aircraft circling high above the Mediterranean, and to Thompson, who was still on the Com-Link in the second Night Hawk.

The end result was that four FA-18/E Super Hornets were immediately scrambled from the deck of the
Theodore Roosevelt,
while, miles away, two dozen Darfur warriors were racing toward seven trucks in the village of Yarim-Dhar, with heavy machine guns in tow. The trucks were about ten miles from the airport and were moving at 50 miles per hour, the maximum speed permitted by the rough terrain. The Hornets maxed out at Mach 1.7, but had some 700 miles to go. Clearance across Libya was approved almost immediately, once General Minyar was briefed on the situation. No one really cared about clearance in northwest Darfur.

At that moment, Thompson was yelling to the Major and his small group, who were halfway to the main terminal. Richard and McMurray had already entered the building. “Major, take cover! It’s an ambush!”

Two heads appeared on the roof of the terminal building. The so-called warriors had taken an inside ladder to the roof of the terminal after the choppers landed. Each had an RPG launcher. They fired simultaneously, each aiming for a helicopter.

Y
OUSSEFF COMPLETED his long, lonely journey to Jalalabad, slept for a few hours, and had his pilots fly him over the mountains into Pakistan, to an almost identical hangar, with identical offices and suites, at Islamabad International. It was there that he reconnected with Marak, just after dark. He did not ask Marak what had become of the unfortunate Zak, nor did he care to know. It was, thankfully, an operational detail that he, as CEO, did not need to trouble himself with. Yousseff had never had the stomach for death or torture, and was glad to leave that aspect of the business to Marak. His role was master and planner. Now he made a number of telephone calls, all on a pre-paid cell phone that Marak had brought with him. Various aspects of the mission were discussed and revised.

As he hung up, he turned to Marak. “Can you have Vijay and Mahari here tomorrow morning?” he asked.

“That will not be a problem,” Marak replied. “First light.”

“Then I should call Omar in Karachi, and Kumar in Los Angeles,” said Yousseff. “We can’t give them all of the information, but they need to know some aspects of the plan. Especially Kumar.”

I
T WAS LATE in the evening, Pacific Standard Time, when Kumar’s personal cell phone rang. He flipped it open. “Hanaman here,” he answered. Kumar had been born in Pakistan, where he’d first met Yousseff. With some passport trickery, he had moved to Long Beach, California, where he’d been living for more than a decade now. There he had built a thriving company that manufactured and sold small commercial submarines to the military and private enterprises.

“It’s Yousseff. How are you Kumar?”

A broad smile crept over Kumar’s face. “It is good to hear your voice, Yousseff. It’s been too long. All is fine here. What do you need?”

Yousseff never wasted much time on pleasantries. Over the years he had found that it was best to deal with the details first, and take time for pleasure second. “I need you to build something for me, Kumar. Something very unique, very unusual. It will take all of your immense talent.”

Kumar’s eyebrows rose, nearing his curly black hairline in surprise. “Oh?”

“But,” continued Yousseff, “I know that you, in that plant of yours, can build anything. It will be difficult, but not impossible. We will email the plans to you shortly. Encrypted, of course, but you know the code. I will call you again in a day or two.”

“Sure, Youss,” came Kumar’s voice, with an edge of uncertainty. “Email what you have. I’ll look at it. Then I can let you know if it’s possible or not.”

“One more thing, Kumar. I have a telephone number for you. Do you still have the simulator for the PWS-14 in the plant?”

“Yes, I do. I’ve actually spent some time in it myself. It can be quite entertaining.”

“There are two young men at this telephone number. Their names are Javeed and Massoud. They are staying at the south LA Mosque. Take them in. Put them up in the suite you have behind your office. And get them to log hours on the simulator.”

“Sure, Yousseff. Are you going to tell me what any of this is about?” asked Kumar.

“I do not want to lay out all the details here and now. Once you start building the device, and training Massoud and Javeed, I will call again. I will be in Los Angeles in about two weeks, and we can connect then. I look forward to seeing you.”

“Likewise,” said Kumar, puzzled. He hung up the phone.

Y
OUSSEFF TURNED OFF his phone and stared at it for a moment. Kumar was a good friend, and he didn’t like keeping him the dark. Neither did he enjoy getting the younger man involved in something that would be dangerous and perhaps fatal. But he had no choice. This was a gamble he had made on the behalf of all his employees and friends. As long as everything went well, they would have no reason to second-guess him for his decision.

As long as everything went well. He sighed and shook his head. He wasn’t used to that stipulation. But he’d been put in a position he wasn’t used to, and was taking part in something he’d never before considered. It was bringing on questions that made him nervous. Questions that might cost him his life, and many important friendships.

Trying not to consider that, he picked up his phone again and punched a second series of numbers. A warm female voice answered. “Executive offices of Karachi Star Line. How may I help you?”

“Please advise Omar that the first mate of the
Janeeta
is on the line,” said Yousseff.

“Mr. Jhananda is meeting with the Executive Planning Committee, and is not available at the moment,” the secretary replied somewhat sharply.

“Just interrupt him for a moment,” said Yousseff, persuasively. “He will want to take this call.”

The wait was less than 30 seconds. “Youss,” said Omar. “Good to hear your voice. I just heard from Vince, and he told me you might call.”

“Yes. How soon can the
Haramosh Star
be ready for travel?”

“She is ready now, Yousseff,” answered Omar. “We put extra crews on overnight and she was put into the water earlier today.”

“Wonderful. And is the submersible with her, in the pod?”

“Yes, Yousseff, we did that too. Everything is ready to go.”

“Go back to your meeting, old friend,” said Yousseff. “I will be in Karachi tonight. I’ll call you from the plane. Perhaps we can have dinner together before I move on.”

“It will be a pleasure. Goodbye.” Omar’s phone clicked and the line went dead.

Yousseff leaned back and closed his eyes. With only two telephone calls and those bare directions, a lot of iron had been put in motion. They were growing closer and closer to the point of no return.

A
T TTIC, Dan was feeling rather less successful. In fact, he was in a black mood. He was furious over the mapping calamity. “Do something useful for a change,” he had snapped at a hapless Hamilton Turbee after the boondoggle, forgetting for a moment who had solved the Madrid terrorist attacks. “See if you can turn some of that dazzling intellect of yours into something other than video games and Simpson re-reruns. Get into that pile of information about the Semtex robbery, and see if you can figure out who did it. The rest of us are going to look at this nuclear threat to our harbors. Now get cracking, Turb, or you’re out of here.”

Turbee turned a bright crimson. “Yes sir,” he said softly. Turbee was not accustomed to TTIC’s military psyche, or its “law and order” and “chain of command” biases. He could barely handle the loose structure of a university post-grad department. Once again he thought about walking out, but then he thought of big Blue Gene, and realized that leaving was unthinkable. He also had some friends here, and for Turbee, with his social handicaps, friends were few and far between. So he straightened up, and initiated a series of database correlation and search routines. “OK, let’s make it a little treasure hunt,” he murmured. While Blue Gene was running the routines, he scanned through the initial Intelligence reports about the heist.

“Heckler and Koch PSG-1’s? What are those?” he asked Rahlson. A search team from the 184th Ordnance had recovered a number of bullets from the assault scene, and had used their expertise to establish the type of weapons used in the attack.

“A rapid-fire, highly accurate sniper rifle,” Rahlson said. “Very rare. Expensive.”

“Who makes them?” asked Turbee.

Rahlson turned his head to one side and was about to tell Turbee how monumentally stupid he thought the kid was when he remembered their differing backgrounds, and Turbee’s utter lack of experience with anything even remotely associated with firearms. “Why, Heckler and Koch, of course.”

“How do you spell that, sir?”

This time Rahlson actually bit his tongue. But then he thought he saw Turbee’s lower lip trembling, and thought about the effort it must be taking for the youngster to control himself in this situation. Oh Jesus Christ, he swore silently. He spelled it out. Turbee dutifully entered the letters into a little batch file he had created, and dispatched an armada of web-bots onto the Internet.

R
ICHARD WAS INSIDE the tiny terminal, one step ahead of McMurray, when he heard one and then the other helicopter explode. He felt the pressure and heat from each shock wave. Focusing his attention inside the terminal, he saw the Bedouin behind the small counter reach into his desert robes and bring up an AK-47. Richard was not famous for his marksmanship, but he did practice from time to time. His 9 mm Glock had been in his hands as he entered the terminal, and now he fired twice before the clerk could pull the trigger. Both bullets found their mark, and the man went down. A third shot finished it.