Читать книгу A Patriotic Nightmare - Don E. Post - Страница 10

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ISTANBUL, TURKEY

Monday, February 10

While Darren attended the Bellingham meeting, Mideast terrorists prepared to ship the first load of Russian arms to the super patriots in the United States. Mr. Ghaleb, a.k.a. Mohammed Javad, a former colonel in Iran’s army and now advisor to several Arab leaders, returned The Medallion to its owner in Istanbul. His colleagues scattered to report to their respective organizations.

Ghaleb returned to his sixth floor apartment and office in Istanbul’s oldest district of Stamboul. He felt ecstatic after dropping by the Iranian Embassy and reporting his progress. Iranian officials seemed delighted with his achievement. He hummed the Iranian national anthem as he returned to his apartment.

His wife looked up from her sewing and with a furrowed brow asked, “What are you so happy about?”

“Ah, woman, my president thinks I will be a national hero if I can get these arms to the Americans!”

“Really?”

“Yes, yes,” he said, as his head nodded rhythmically. He sauntered into the room overlooking the street that served as his office and sat at the ornate mahogany desk. Putting down her sewing, his wife followed and moved quickly to close the louvered windows to shut out the noise from the narrow, cobbled street below. Family pictures decorated the otherwise bare walls. A hand-made rug covered most of the wooden floor.

“Maybe you are just being used by the right-wing religious fanatics,” she said.

“Ahhh, woman,” he said, with a wave of his hand and a sneer on his face.

Ghaleb’s wife picked up another sewing task she had left earlier and after a period of silence and without looking up, asked, “When are we going to move to America or England?”

“Now, now. I wish you would not talk like that. Some day we will.”

“I want to be near our children in Detroit or London. I don’t even like these Turkish people!”

“I know you don’t, but my work is important. Please. In time.”

“Yieee. In time, in time. Always it’s in time.”

Ghaleb stared at papers on his desk while trying to fend off his wife’s needling. Ahh, these women, he thought. What a burden they are. Allah has not been merciful to me.

His wife interrupted his thoughts to ask, head tilted to the side and eyes squinting questioningly, “Where do you meet all these characters? You’re not a practicing Muslim. And the radicals, like Osama bin Laden, scare you. So why are you getting involved?”

He looked over at his wife. After a few moments, he said, “Well, some important people in the Arab world believe I can help. Besides, they pay me well.”

“Well, I am just wondering why you keep trying to help them attack the Israelis,” she said, as she looked down and continued to sew.

“I hate them. Don’t you?”

“Yes and no.”

“And what is this yes and no?” he asked, wide-eyed and arms extended as a gesture of bewilderment.

“Yes, the Israelis have done some wicked things. But so have the Palestinians. And no, because we will never have peace as long as people are unable to forget the past and work out their differences in a peaceful means. I’m tired of all the killing.”

“Shuuuu,” he sighed. Here we go again.

Thursday, February 13

Ghaleb’s group went to work on shipping strategies. The president of Iran’s aide called to say that a Maersk Line freighter Sea Novia would dock in Odessa to pick up the valued cargo. Stopping at Istanbul, it would transfer one half the cargo to a ship from the fleet of an Algerian company, Compagnie Nationale Algerienne De Navigation (CNAN), and dock at Vera Cruz, Mexico. The aide also said that the Algerians had agreed to arrange Mexican trucking for the cargo from Vera Cruz to the border town of Ojinaga, a small village across the border from the U.S. town of Presidio. The Iranian President planned to ask the Libyan President to call Castro and see if he would pay off Mexican immigration officials. They would notify Ghaleb of their success. The remaining weapons would be transferred to a Turkish freight company, D.B. Turkish Cargo, which had recently established a new lane to Vancouver.

ESTES PARK, COLORADO

Friday, February 14

While Arab terrorists prepared the arms shipment and U.S. federal law enforcement officials scurried to put the pieces together, the patriot movement faced some rapid and momentous changes. In order to further unite the many disparate patriotic groups into a more cohesive organization White, Chapmann, and other key elites brought major leaders together at the secluded Aspen Lodge Ranch Resort and Conference Center near Estes Park. Those in attendance included: Reverend Chudders, from Texas; the newest president of the Republic of Texas, Reginald Herring; Reverend Petsch; Colonel Arlo White; and representatives from the KKK, Christian Identity Group, The Order, State Citizenship Sovereignty, Gun Owners of America, Police Against the New World Order, along with numerous state militia groups and interested parties. Thirty invitations had been extended. Forty-two showed up, not counting ten heavily armed security guards. White dubbed it the second Unified Patriot’s Council meeting.

Colonel White introduced Chapmann to his friend and colleague, Retired General Ernst Boorgers. Boorgers had been running the Universal Anti-Communist League of America. His name had also surfaced in the Iran-Contra congressional hearings for supplying weapons to counter-subversives during the Nicaraguan revolution.

The meeting took place in wood paneled, Long’s Peak conference room at the main lodge.

“Gentlemen, let me have your attention, please,” Chapmann announced. The group quieted. “Welcome to this get-together of true American patriots. None of us has a great deal of appreciation for bureaucracies, especially when they deny our individual rights and freedoms to think and act as God has so ordered us.”

A number of private conversations erupted at the rear of the room, disrupting Chapmann’s introductory speech. He stopped for a moment, then shouted, “Quiet back there!” Finally, he continued. “Our purpose here is not to create another bureaucratic monster, but to provide enough information to keep us from stepping on one another’s toes. There’s not goin’ to be any long-winded speeches here.”

A ripple of applause ran through the group, and then White said, “For those of you who don’t know it, we have arms stored in a number of warehouses around the country. In a few weeks those facilities will bulge at the seams, so we need to get them distributed.” He turned, pointed at Boorgers, and said, “My good friend, General Boorgers, will arrange distribution. He’ll say a word about this process.”

Five or so minutes of chaos ensued while it seemed that everyone tried to talk at the same time. Finally, Colonel White shouted as only a career military officer can: “Hey, let’s come to order here! The general has the floor.”

White sat down as Boorgers stretched his two-hundred-sixty-pound, six foot, five inch frame out of his chair, walked to the front and said, “Gentlemen, we are increasingly in need of coordinating activities nationally. Keep in communication with White or myself. But maintain your phantom cells. If no one knows the details of a cell’s activity, there will be no leaks. Got it?”

Most quietly clapped their approval. Some whistled and yelled. Again, numerous conversations broke out. White, miffed by the group’s lack of decorum, whispered to Boorgers, “Jeeesus Christ, we’ve raised a population of savages in this country!”

“Yeah, and we’ve got some who are just inherently nasty and others that were never house broken,” Boorgers responded. White snickered quietly as Boorgers smirked.

Then several individuals took the floor, pushing their own agenda or, as Chapmann whispered to White, “Some of these guys like to hear themselves talk. I can’t make any sense out of most of it. This meeting may not have been a good idea.” White nodded his agreement, folded his arms, leaned back and stared off across the room as people ranted and raved. Two or three often spoke at the same time.

Reverend Chudders finally took the floor and asked for all to stand for prayer. However, the noise from private conversations, significantly abated, continued. Chudders had to pause. The group quieted after a few moments, and Chudders finished his prayer.

Arlo White took the floor to close the session, saying in a voice loud, “It’s important that you know we’ve been unable to get the United Nations and the Red Cross to recognize that our people should be treated as prisoners of war in case war breaks out.” The crowd responded with hoots, cat calls, and cursing.

White, Boorgers, and Chapmann stood, watched and listened to the fracas for a few minutes, and then left the room shaking their heads in disbelief and laughing. Chudders, left alone in front of the group, looked bewildered and forlorn. He finally got up and wandered out of the room.

The afternoon session was canceled and participants were left to find their own diversions. By breakfast time the next morning most had drifted out of Estes Park, disenchanted with the proceedings.

Chapmann, Chudders and White stayed to meet with General Boorgers and a few other national-level leaders. As the men stood to depart, White stunned Chapmann and Chudders by saying, “Gentlemen, let’s prepare for war with an evil empire!”

Chapmann walked up to Chudders. “Did I hear White call for a war with America or did I imagine it?”

“Yep, yes, sir, you shore did.”

“How did we get to this point?” Chapmann asked.

PORT OF ODESSA, UKRAINE

Saturday, February 15

While the super patriots tried to organize themselves in Colorado, agents Easton and Miller stood under a Roman colonnade at the top of the Petemkenksi Steps trying to view the loading docks. Though midnight, the docks were lit with floodlights as if it were high noon.

The agents took turns observing and photographing the loading of the Sea Novia through high-powered binoculars and the other watching for anyone coming up the steps behind them. Several couples huddled in the darker corners of the colonnade, so Easton and Miller hoped their rapt focus on the port facility would not seem unusual.

Easton spotted Yuri Tavanovich on the docks through his binoculars, clipboard in hand, counting off the crates marked construction materials, as each pallet was loaded by mechanical lifts. At every lull in the loading process, Yuri roamed the docks, checking nooks and crannies.

The American agents photographically captured close shots of each pallet and everyone associated with the loading. The loading finished at 3:20 a.m., the ship pulled away from port at 5:30 a.m., and the two exhausted agents returned to the Passage Hotel to clean up, eat some breakfast and grab some sleep. Agent Miller took the film to a lab run by the CIA and then arranged to get a copy of the ship’s manifest from a friend of a friend who worked the Port Authority.

Sunday, February 16

Agent Miller met her friend Andri Gudunov by the Atlantis statues on Golgol Street at twelve noon. She handed him a shopping bag in which she had placed a nicely wrapped gift, saying, “Please, take this to your wife and give her my best regards.” He thanked her profusely as they stood and chatted about their families. As they started to part Gudunov said, “You may want to take the latest edition of the English language paper from Kiev with you. I finished it.” Agent Miller thanked him and they went their separate ways.

Gudunov had taped the ship’s manifest to the sports page of the newspaper he had handed Miller. According to the documents, the construction materials were to be shipped to Istanbul, reloaded aboard another ship enroute to Vera Cruz, Mexico. Agent Miller immediately sent copies of the translated documents to CIA Langley.