Executive Intent (38 page)

Still, the agent was getting more and more suspicious and decided to give this man several more minutes of attention, so he carefully and deliberately repacked the odd diving gear, then started to go through the man's backpack, again being slow and deliberate. The backpack contained clothes and toiletries, including some cold-weather clothing, giving further credence to the Irish Sea story, plus spare battery packs and a pair of binoculars, all listed on the declaration form. The briefcase had a laptop computer, cellular phone, power adapters, more spare battery packs, a personal digital assistant, pens, and other typical businessman travel things—no pornography, alcohol, or prohibited items, everything properly declared. He checked his papers and found permission letters to use a house owned by the Yemeni Fish Company in Hadibo, along with vouchers for scuba trips and island tours, all arranged online fairly recently through a tourist agency in Sana'a from a hotel in London using an American credit card. All very touristlike.

He really didn't have anything to detain him here legally, the customs agent thought, but he had to be reported. The officer had recently received some advanced training in how to spot foreign agents and insurgents, and this guy definitely looked like a fighter, not an engineer. “You are aware of the pirate trouble in the region lately?” the customs agent asked. “The Chinese navy has successfully suppressed much of the pirate activity to the south, but it is still active in the Gulf of Aden and northern Indian Ocean.”

“Oh yes,” the man named Coulter replied. “I've already got some dives scheduled with Captain Said's tour group, and the tourist agency told us he runs a very secure operation.”

“He does indeed,” the agent said, “but any business on the high seas that attracts the attention of wealthy Western or Persian Gulf customers attracts the attention of pirates. Traveling very far offshore is not recommended, and be sure to advise your consulate in Sana'a by phone where you will be and your expected time of return.”

“I will,” the man said. He locked eyes with the agent for a moment, then added, “Good advice,” in a tone that sent a chill down the agent's spine. He had a feeling this American would like nothing more than to have an encounter with a Somali pirate.

The customs agent again took his time repacking the man's bags, but the line was already getting long, and there was only one other inspector working this afternoon, so he quickly finished his paperwork and returned his travel documents to him. “Welcome to Socotra Island,” he said. “Please enjoy your stay.”

“Salam alaykum,”
the man said, and the customs agent immediately thought that his Arabic was much better the second time—had he intentionally stumbled over his Arabic pronunciations to appear more like a tourist, and forgot to do so again now? The man collected his belongings and headed for the taxi area.

The agent processed several more visitors who had come off the Felix Air flight, got a cup of tea, then went to the cargo inspection area to find the man he wanted badly to speak to. He soon found a familiar white face, casually looking around, a cup of tea in his hand. The man noticed the customs officer and stepped over to him. “Greetings, Sergeant Dhudin,” he said in Arabic but with a very heavy Russian accent. “How is your family?”

“Very well, Captain Antonov,” Dhudin said. “And yours?”

“Everyone is fine,” the Russian replied. “Helping with the cargo processing?”

“No, I wanted to mention something to you, Captain,” the customs agent replied. He had known Antonov for about two years and they were friends, as much as any Arab could befriend a Russian. The Russians had provided a lot of upgrades and support for the airport since they had started using it more often—Dhudin had received security and firearms training from Antonov about a year ago.

Dhudin looked around and noticed a small pile of wooden crates, being watched by another white man—a Russian guard. Antonov and undoubtedly the guard were from the
Glavno'e Razved' vatel'no'e Upravleni'e,
or GRU, the Russian Federation's military intelligence unit. As before, when southern Yemen was known as the Democratic People's Republic of Yemen and actively supported and manned by Soviet troops, in the past few years the Russians had become much more active in Yemen in general and on Socotra Island and on Barim Island in the Bab-el-Mandeb waterway between the Gulf of Aden and the Red Sea. Since the terrorist incident against the Chinese navy, the Russians were back in Aden once again.

“What did you want to talk about, Sergeant?” Antonov asked.

Dhudin nodded toward the guard and the crates. “Bringing in more electronics for the facility?”

“Not today—mail, payroll, probably some un-Islamic beverages and reading materials,” the Russian said. “Anything I can interest you in?”

“Russian vodka is always appreciated in my family.”

“Very well.” Dhudin was known to be an honest Yemeni government employee, but he was definitely not above taking bribes or tip money from infidels. “So. Something interesting today?”

“An American,” Dhudin said. “He claimed to be an engineer.”

“Claimed to be? You do not believe him?”

“He looks like a commando,” Dhudin said. “Big, muscular, and cool as a crocodile.”

“Few commandos would travel to their target on commercial airlines,” the Russian said.

“You asked me to be on the lookout for something unusual, Captain,” Dhudin said.

“Of course. My apologies.” Dhudin also wasn't above passing along useless tips just to get his hands on Russian vodka or pornography, but he seemed genuinely suspicious this time. “Anything else?”

“His papers said he had a large case in the cargo hold, to be picked up by the owner.”

“Let us take a look,” Antonov said. After a few minutes of searching, they found a large fiberglass case, very high-tech-looking. Antonov stooped down and inspected the customs seals—they were secure, official, and the registration numbers agreed with the manifest. “Have any more seals, Sergeant?” he asked.

“Of course.”

Antonov pulled a multipurpose tool from a belt holster, cut off the customs seal, and opened the case. Dhudin hurried to sign the manifest indicating that he had opened the case. The case contained flexible tubing, some solid tubes and rods, and what appeared to be hydraulic actuators. There was a small stack of color brochures inside, printed in both English and Arabic. “What does it say?” he asked.

“It is apparently a machine that crawls along the ocean bottom and autonomously collects shellfish from traps, then returns to shore,” Dhudin said. “Ingenious.”

“A walking fish trap, eh?” Antonov commented. He searched through the contents more carefully but was unable to find any hidden compartments or anything that looked like spy gear. “This looks like spare parts perhaps.”

“He is scheduled to get another large container tomorrow.”

He would definitely like to take a look inside that container as well. “All signed off by inspectors in Sana'a?” the Russian asked.

“Yes.”

“His papers were in order?”

“Yes.”

“What else alerted you?”

“He was carrying his diving gear—not the usual warm-water tourist stuff, more like professional underwater construction gear. He said it was for long-exposure deep diving—definitely not recreational, although he did say he wanted to do some recreational diving.”

“How interesting,” Antonov commented. Dhudin could see that the information was raising the Russian's suspicions, just as it did his own. Antonov took out his cellular phone and took a few pictures of the equipment with the phone's camera. “Staying at a house in Hadibo, you say?” he asked the Yemeni.

“Actually, it is between Qadub and Hadibo, the old Ottoman lighthouse owned by the Yemeni Fish Company. All vouchers and other papers checked.”

Antonov knew that the Yemeni Fish Company had been investigated in the recent past for being involved in smuggling—this was getting interesting indeed. “And you say he looked military?”

“Very much so.”

“Did you notify the NSO yet?”

“I was going to do it right after inspections.”

“Do it now. Also give the Yemeni Fish Company a call and find out when this demonstration will be. I want to visit this one while he is out of the house.”

“Should I keep this case for now?”

The Russian thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Go ahead and release it,” he said. “I do not want to alert the American yet, if he is not who he claims to be.”

 

As Wayne Macomber waited near the taxicab stand—a pitiful-looking place surrounded by trash, cigarette butts, and donkey
droppings—a newer-looking Range Rover drove up and honked its horn. That, of course, got every local's attention around the entire airport terminal, something Whack was hoping to avoid.

The driver jumped out. “Mr. Coulter?” he said in pretty good English. “
Salam alaykum
. Peace be upon you.”

“Wa alaykum as-salam,”
Whack responded for the um-hundredth time on this trip. “And upon you peace.”

“Very good Arabic, sir,” the man said. “I am Salam al-Jufri from the Yemeni Fish Company.
Al-Hamdu lillah al as-salama
. Thank God for your safe arrival.” Whack knew that was a common salutation, even when someone just came across town to visit. “I am here to take you to your house.” He produced a business card, and Whack gave him his in return. “Yes, the robot maker,” al-Jufri said. “Very good.” He looked at the large fiberglass case. “I am sorry, but this must be strapped up.” Whack lifted the case up, and al-Jufri produced three tattered bungee cords and a length of rope. Whack would have felt more comfortable with the case inside and
himself
on the roof, but after two or three tries, it looked secure enough.

It was easy to see why the case couldn't go inside: The back of the Range Rover was filled to the brim with every kind of article—fishing gear, miscellaneous items of clothing, spare fuel cans, a bicycle, and sacks of something. There was barely enough room in the backseat for the big duffel bag and backpack. Whack squeezed himself into the front passenger seat and took a few moments to try to roll the seat back, finally giving up.

They departed the airport down a dusty rock and dirt road, then turned east along a two-lane paved highway. Whack knew that his objective was west along the same highway, but certainly asking the driver to turn in the wrong direction would have attracted more attention. The highway twisted toward the Gulf of Aden, and he saw the spectacular blue-green waters and thought of McLanahan's friend Gia Cazzotta, and of the three navies vying for position out in those peaceful-looking waters.

The highway was on a sandstonelike shelf about a hundred feet above the ocean, with a thirty-foot cliff to their right, so there was little to see except for the ocean. Whack checked behind them every few moments, not only to look for any sign of surveillance but to make sure the fiberglass case hadn't fallen off the roof.

“You are well, sir?” al-Jufri asked after a few minutes.

“Aiwa
,
shukran,”
Whack replied.

“Your Arabic is very very good,” al-Jufri said, nodding appreciatively, showing a mouthful of stained and rotting teeth. “You build robots, no?”

“Just drive,” Whack growled.

“Mish mushkila
,
mish mushkila,”
al-Jufri said, swallowing nervously and taking a better grip on the steering wheel. “No problem, sir.”

It was only about six miles down the highway until they came to a wide, short peninsula where the cliffs to the right disappeared, so the highway twisted away from the ocean. They turned left down a short dirt road, past a three-or four-foot stone wall with a crumbling wooden gate, then across a yard of dirt and stone and a few scraggly trees to a whitewashed stone building with a flat roof, and another building beside it with what appeared to be a tapering cylindrical lighthouse with four windows on the top floor, crowned with a Muslim crescent. Beyond the lighthouse Whack could see a covered outdoor patio with a fireplace, and beyond that there appeared to be a stable.

“Here we are, sir,” al-Jufri said. He parked the Range Rover beside the lighthouse, then took Whack's bags to the house. He unlocked a green metal door that had six circles of multicolored glass in it, probably the most colorful thing Whack had seen in all of Yemen except for the Gulf of Aden. “This is the old Turkish lighthouse and its caretaker's home. It is now my boss's weekend house. You will enjoy.”

The house was small but remarkably modern, and Whack
thought this would be a nice place to vacation. The view of the ocean was spectacular from every room in the house. There was a small patio off the kitchen, and a long flight of stone stairs had been carved into the cliff down to a pink sand beach, with sailboats and fish boats moored alongside a short pier.

Whack went outside and helped al-Jufri untie the fiberglass case from the roof. “Shall I drive you somewhere, Salam?” he asked after he lifted the case free.

“La, shukran,”
al-Jufri said. “No, thank you.” He opened the back of the Range Rover and retrieved the battered bicycle, then stood beside it proudly, smiling at Whack—he did everything but hold out his hand. Whack took twenty U.S. dollars from his pocket—about four thousand Yemeni riyals, about a month's wages for most working-class Yemenis—and gave it to him.

The man's eyes almost popped out of their sockets. “
Shukran, shukran jazilan!
Thank you, sir!” he said over and over. “Please, if you need anything whatsoever, call. My sons will be by later in the evening and in the morning to look after the horses, and my wife and daughter will come to light the outdoor stove and lanterns.” He bowed several times, clasped Whack's hand in thanks, then rode off.