Читать книгу A Patriotic Nightmare - Don E. Post - Страница 7
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PORT EL KANTAOUI, TUNISIA
Monday, February 3
Sunday night Yuri Tavanovich received an urgent call from a man in Rome urging him to meet a client in Tunisia to discuss a new construction project—the code for an arms purchase. He grabbed the earliest flight he could using a forged French passport to move rapidly through passport control. He then rented a car and enjoyed the three-hour drive from Nabeul to Port El Kantaoui along the eastern Mediterranean coast of Tunisia.
The day was beginning to fade as the former Russian KGB agent settled into his room at the El Hana Palace Hotel and anxiously awaited his meeting. His room provided an unfettered view over the yacht basin. He walked onto his balcony and gazed out across the blue Mediterranean to the east and watched, transfixed, as a deep, rich, burnt orange sky seemed to explode across the heavens as the sun sank in the west. The azure sea responded surrealistically to the sun’s display, and he felt his tensions melt away.
As he watched boats enter the harbor after a day of sailing or fishing, his gaze fell on a group of children sitting on the wall that edged the cliff north of the hotel. They all wore short, faded pants, tee shirts with holes, and no shoes and were pointing to various boats in the harbor, imagining owning a boat when they grew up. Their giggles and excited talk echoed across the basin and mixed with distant calls of fishermen and boaters in the marina below.
Yuri turned to observe sea gulls gliding blissfully across the orange Mediterranean sky. As he absorbed the scene, he kept looking for the arrival of his Arab buyers who were supposed to arrive aboard a two hundred-forty-five-foot motor yacht named The Medallion flying a Turkish flag. Giving up, he went inside.
The sharp ring of the phone startled Yuri. He had fallen asleep. Picking up the phone, he heard a deep baritone voice softly ask, “Yurgi Tavanbich?”
“Nyet, no, no. Name is Yuri Tavanovich,” he said, slowly emphasizing the correct pronunciation.
“Okay, okay. Yurgi Tabanobisch,” the speaker replied, still mispronouncing his name.
Stupid camel herder, Yuri thought. No wonder they can’t do anything but kill each other off. As soon as all that oil’s gone, they’ll be back herding camels and goats.
The speaker on the line continued in a monotone, staccato voice. “I glad you speak English. We don’t speak French or Russian. We arrive and moor at northern edge of marina, near end of jetty. Why don’t you come dinner with us nine o’clock? We have powerboat pick up you. Pilot of boat is young man, Ali Ashwari.”
“First, I must tell you that I will not come if any member of the Al-Qaida is present. We just can’t take the chance.”
“There is no Al-Qaida present. We understand that issue.”
“Okay. Spahsseebah. Thank you, that will be fine.” For a split second Yuri’s native language showed itself. The Soviet government had all KGB agents learn English and he had found it a valuable tool on many occasions. French, however, gave him a tough time. All the French people he knew laughed at his pronunciation, which didn’t encourage him to learn the language. He cursed them in Russian to their faces while smiling apologetically. “The French are stupid idiots,” he muttered aloud.
He glanced at his wristwatch. An hour and a half to wait. He walked over to his valise on the bed and took out his binoculars. Then he turned off the lamp for total darkness and went out on the balcony to see if he could spot the yacht. He scanned the darkening marina. The ship was easily identified. It dwarfed the other boats. The yacht’s lights lit up the area for a hundred yards. What a beauty, he thought. But it was so large it drew attention to itself, which seemed to Yuri like a stupid thing to do when one is trying to buy arms on the black market. Four men with guns guarded the decks, nicely dressed in white slacks and navy blazers. They would just have to put up with this old KGB agent in blue jeans.
Yuri grabbed his light briefcase, stuffed pictures of the weapons he hawked into a side pocket and walked leisurely down to the marina. He arrived at the jetty’s small dock a few minutes before nine. A young Tunisian couple kissed and fondled each other in the dark. Yuri walked as far away from the couple as he could, leaned against the rail and waited. The couple, chagrined that their private space had been invaded, soon departed to find another sanctuary for their passion. Yuri leaned over the guardrail. Intermittent laughter from a nearby yacht and water lapping against the rocks of the jetty were the only sounds that broke the silence.
Finally, at nine-twenty, a motorboat approached and a young man shot a broad spotlight beam along the platform until he found Yuri. “Mister Tabanobich?”
“Yes, I am here.” He quickly climbed aboard and settled into a seat. There seemed little sense trying to correct the young man’s pronunciation of his name. “I assume you are Ali.”
“Yes,” the young man answered as he slowly moved away from the small dock, turned and piloted the small craft out to The Medallion without saying another word.
As Yuri stepped aboard the yacht, a man who introduced himself as Mr. Ghaleb stuck out his hand in greeting. Yuri recognized the voice as that on the phone from Rome. Ghaleb led him up a set of stairs to the second deck and a large dining room where nine other men sat. They all rose when Yuri entered. Ghaleb turned and said, “Mr. Yurgi, not necessary for you to know our names, yeah? Only matter important is we are not of Al-Qaida and we will put U.S. dollars in your company account before you ship merchandise. Okay? If you have what we need and price is right. You understand the reason for secrecy, yeah? Okay for you?”
“Yeah. Okay.” Yuri glanced around at the others, who all nodded and grinned. He doubted any of them understood much English.
“We eat, and then talk business, yeah?” Ghaleb said. The men seated themselves and a young man in a white, v-necked, loose-fitting cotton tunic, asked Yuri what drink he would like. Yuri asked for vodka.
While waiting to eat, Yuri and Ghaleb carried on a polite conversation about the yacht. Ghaleb said that he and his Arab associates liked to meet in Tunisia because they could come and go without government interference. Although a Muslim, the country’s president, Ben Ali, head of the Constitutional Democratic Rally Party, had insisted that fundamental Islamic groups not use his country to foster their terrorist aims. He feared American retaliation. In return for being left alone to run his own country, he tried to provide funds and cover for various Muslim groups, but had found that increasingly difficult since September 11th, 2001. And the borders with Libya stayed open and uncontrolled. Yet, Ghaleb explained, they tried to meet at a different place each time to keep their enemies confused.
“Mr. Yurgi, why did you and Russian friends start business in France?” Ghaleb asked.
Amazed by Ghaleb’s butchering his name again, Yuri let out a sigh and said slowly, “We are all former KGB colleagues and selling arms after the fall of the Soviet Union was all we knew to do. Our founder, General Vladimir Chekhov, got contracts from a number of Russian and Ukrainian arms manufacturers to handle foreign sales, so we went to work.”
“But France?” Ghaleb asked with a quizzical look.
“Yes, France. General Chekhov said we needed to keep our assets in a more stable economy and he had a lot of experience and friends in France. So, we moved the business to Marseille. There are a lot of foreigners there, so we can go and come as needed.”
“Don’t the French know what you are doing?” Ghaleb continued.
“No, not to our knowledge. As you know, we are registered as a construction company and have French engineers that do legitimate projects.”
“Ah, since the America’s World Trade Center was destroyed and the Americans removed Saddam from office we must all be very careful,” Ghaleb whispered.
“True,” Yuri said, whispering back and nodding assent.
This seemed to satisfy Mr. Ghaleb. He looked around, shouted some orders in Arabic and immediately the food started arriving.
Yuri had thought they would never eat. Yuri looked at his watch and saw it was almost midnight. Might as well be having breakfast!
“Mr. Yogi,” Ghaleb said, arms flying in different directions for emphasis, “We hired Tunisia’s finest chef to prepare food. You will like food, yeah? We love to meet here. Food is very good!” Ghaleb and several of his partners laughed boisterously.
Yuri had trouble with the spicy food. He wondered how these people’s stomachs could digest the stuff. He ate enough to be polite. After dinner the group moved to the aft deck. Yuri’s chair faced the shoreline whose rocky cliffs, subtly lit by the soft glow of lights from homes and buildings, created an enchanting backdrop. The nervous bark of a dog pierced the hypnotic silence of the cool Mediterranean night from time to time.
As silence descended on the small group gathered on deck, Ghaleb turned toward Yuri, “How big order can your company handle now?”
“We have one hundred million U.S. dollars worth of stock. Most is surplus materials.”
“What condition is surplus?” Ghaleb asked.
“Forty percent is new. The remainder is used, but totally reconditioned. We had each military depot clean, repair and pack each item for storage. They are in excellent shape and we will guarantee each weapon with money back,” Yuri answered.
A long silence ensued as the men contemplated Yuri’s comments. A discussion in Arabic broke out. Finally, Ghaleb asked, “Give us run down of what you have now, yeah?”
Yuri thought about the best way to do this, and then pulled pictures out of his briefcase, placing each on the deck in front of Ghaleb as he talked. In Arabic, Ghaleb asked for more light.
Yuri said cautiously, “To start, we have many, many AKM-7.62-mm assault rifles. You know this is newest replacement for the AK-47s. The weapon weighs less than old AK-47s and is from new lightweight aluminum and plastic mags.” Yuri pointed at the pictures with his right index finger as he spoke and then looked up at the men to see if they had understood.
He continued, “The stock is straighter, which gives the shooter better control. The gas cylinder is better; there is rate-of-fire control alongside the trigger, a rear sight increased to one thousand meters rather than the former eight hundred and a better, detachable bayonet.” Again Yuri looked at the men and waited. Then he stood, stretched and said, “We have folding-stock version, the AKMS. Their range is three hundred meters.”
He paused to let Ghaleb translate and once each nodded understanding, he continued his presentation, showing more pictures of the armaments, including tanks, armored vehicles and air-defense systems.
The men passed the pictures around and talked in Arabic for fifteen to twenty minutes. Periodically they had Ghaleb ask Yuri a question in English. Finally, Yuri handed each a price list. The unit price had been listed for each weapon, followed by a ten percent reduction in cost per twenty-five AKMs and machine guns, a ten percent reduction per ten support weapons and so forth.
After the men discussed the prices, Yuri added, “You may inspect these weapons before taking possession. Your money will be returned on any item not same as my representation. Our prices are below what can be purchased through the Chinese, the Germans or any other dealers. I am sure you know about price of armaments very well. We will deal honestly with you because we want more of your business.” Again, there was a period of silence.
Finally, at around two o’clock in the morning, Ghaleb stood, came over to Yuri, stuck out his hand and said, “Thanks you for coming to meet us. Let us talk and get back tomorrow for lunch, yeah? Okay?”
“Da. Yes, fine,” stammered a bleary-eyed Yuri. Ghaleb put his arm around Yuri’s shoulder and ushered him to the stairs where the boat waited to take him to shore.
Back in his hotel room Yuri fell asleep fully clothed as soon as he hit the bed.
Yuri awakened to the sun streaming through the French doors to the balcony. His watch showed eight-thirty. Rarely did he sleep so late. Voices and motors could be heard coming from the marina. He called room service and ordered coffee and toast and then took a shower. The waiter arrived just as he finished shaving. He tipped the young boy and then carried his coffee and toast onto the balcony to enjoy the morning. After a few sips he suddenly noticed that The Medallion had disappeared. “That’s strange,” he muttered in disbelief. He jumped up and got his binoculars. Scanning the Mediterranean from north to south it seemed evident that the buyers had left.
Puzzled, he hastily finished dressing and then went out on the balcony and stood for a few moments trying to collect his thoughts. He decided to take a walk through the village and wait until noon for Ghaleb and his friends to show up. If they didn’t, he would leave. He felt a strange discomfort. Something was wrong. As he carefully studied the room, it hit him. He had not left the binoculars on the dressing table with the lens-caps off last night. He always put everything back in place. He knew that for sure. He looked in his valise to see if he could detect any other disturbance. He kept traveler’s checques strapped to his body and never left anything of value in his room. Maybe some of the hotel staff tried to find something valuable. Maybe they used the binoculars for their own pleasure. Ahh, maybe the Arabs had searched his stuff.
His plane tickets seemed undisturbed. Yet, his KGB instincts registered alarm. He felt a chill. He strapped his plane ticket to his body with his traveler’s checques, stashed everything else neatly in his valise, then rigged the rest so he could tell if they had been tampered with and left for a walk through the village.
Returning to his room at eleven-thirty, he checked the valise and found that all the traps seemed intact. Maybe I’m too cautious, he thought. He took his binoculars, stepped out on the balcony and scanned the Marina. He found the yacht anchored closer to shore. The moment he spotted her, the phone rang. Ghaleb’s cheerful voice asked, “How are you this morning?”
“Fine. You?”
“Oh, we are fine. We motor down coast and moor in secluded bay. One can’t be too cautious.”
“Yes, I wondered where you had gone.”
“Can I come your room and maybe we come to agreement, yeah? Maybe we order something to eat there, yeah?”
“Yes. You know I’m in room three-forty-eight.” A slight laugh could be heard, then Ghaleb hung up. Yuri realized that he should have brought a de-bugging device. “Stupid,” he said aloud, as he swung his fist in the air. He quickly searched the phone, lamps, table, bed and all other nooks and crannies that make nice homes for bugs. Nothing.
Twenty minutes later Ghaleb knocked on the door. Yuri ordered a light lunch for the two as they settled down to talk business at the small corner table. In a quiet whisper Ghaleb said, “Yuri, we want first order for fifty million U.S. dollars in arms. Give banking information and we can put one million in advance.” Yuri pulled out a piece of paper with the company letterhead, indicating the Swiss bank, banker, account number and information for wire transfers. Ghaleb slid the paper into a manila folder and stuffed it into his briefcase, then added, “If this shipment goes well, we will buy about one hundred million dollars more over the next few months.”
Yuri nodded. “Good, we will be happy to help you.”
“In addition to arms you show us, we want three-thousand blast and three-thousand fragmentation land-mines,” Ghaleb said. “The frags can be variety of regular trip-wire, above ground, and boundary and directional type. Let us know what you have. And can you get us Italian plastic mines?”
“I’ll send you list of what we have. I don’t know if we can get Italian mines, but I’ll let you know. Since the Americans went to war against you people it is difficult to get armaments like we use to. Send the rest of the order to me in Marseille,” Yuri said matter-of-factly. “We will confirm receipt of funds. You must arrange to have someone inspect the cargo at the warehouse in Odessa. They can watch them loaded. We will pay the expenses of four of your inspectors while in Odessa. We can also arrange someone with us who speaks Arabic, if you need. Upon loading, but before the ship leaves the harbor, we will expect notice that the rest of the funds have been sent to our Swiss account. Is all acceptable?”
“Yes, agreeable,” Ghaleb said with a nod of his head. Then he rose and shook Yuri’s hand. “We look forward to business with you. Good-bye.”
Yuri, relieved that the Arab had left and elated over the deal, walked to the balcony and watched as Ghaleb, joined by two of the bodyguards from the boat, walked down to the marina, climbed into the small motorboat and sped toward The Medallion. Why are the Mideasterners always looking back at the terrible times? he wondered. They take revenge, then those people take revenge and the killing never ends. He remembered how relieved he had been when his country pulled out of Afghanistan. What a nightmare. And now he’s selling arms to those he once fought against and whose aim is to bring down the West. The Americans hadn’t helped themselves by getting impatient with the diplomatic path. I guess it’s their instant gratification culture. Now every Arab is a potential killer. Ah well, this is a dirty business, but someone has to provide the weapons. Screw them all!
Yuri grabbed his valise, checked out and headed back to Tunis to catch his flight home. As he flew out over the blue Mediterranean for the short hop to Marseille, he gazed out at the beauty of the area and thought how easily arms sold in this world. But he couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that something seemed amiss.
In a modest room on the third floor of the U.S. Embassy at 144 Avenue de la Liberte, in Tunis, CIA agent and Paris station chief, Mark Easton, encrypted a message about Yuri Tavanovich’s arms sale for his colleagues in Langley, Virginia. The CIA’s French counterpart had been monitoring Yuri’s construction firm and Russian staff in Marseille since opening day. The French and the CIA knew Yuri’s group was selling Russian arms to terrorist organizations, but neither the arms nor the funds ended up in France so the French had not been able to take legal action. The French did the surveillance and the CIA chased the guns and money. Yuri’s group had been strangely silent since the World Trade Center bombing. The Americans were persuaded that their demonstration of power in Iraq had silenced them for good. The French had notified the U.S. Embassy in Paris the night Ghaleb called Yuri Tavanovich’s home and asked to meet in Tunisia. Alarmed, Mark had immediately hopped a French military flight to Tunis and picked up Yuri’s trail as he left the airport terminal the next morning.
Mark had observed Yuri checking in at the El Hana Palace Hotel and he had checked in at the nearby Diar El Andaloui hotel, and then driven to Yuri’s hotel.
He had a cup of coffee in the main dining room, and then roamed the hotel grounds to gain familiarity with the environment. He noticed the hotel manager eyeing him suspiciously. Finally the manager approached him to see if he could help with anything. Mark explained that he needed a site for a small convention of his company’s salesmen and was deeply enchanted with his fine hotel. Mark handed the man a business card presenting himself as a marketing consultant to a leading French cosmetics firm.
At this point, the manager lost his suspicious edge and became eager to go over every detail of his hotel’s design, pointing out all the nooks and crannies of the property. Mark took detailed notes. During the course of the conversation Mark mentioned that he had planned to meet a colleague there, but he hadn’t shown up. Had any European types checked in lately? The manager walked back to the front desk and asked the clerk the name of the European who had checked in earlier. The clerk looked at his computer screen and said, “The man is Russian because his name is “Ta-van-o-veetch.”
“No, that’s not my friend. But is that man middle age, thinning black hair, about five feet ten inches?”
The clerk and manager looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, held out their arms, palms up and with a tilt of the head to one side said, “No, sorry, this man did not look like that.”
“He seemed a strong and stout man, the manager said. “He had reddish cheeks like the people in Scandinavia or Russia. His brown hair had fallen out a lot. How do you say…uhh.”
“Balding?”
“Yes, yes, balding,”
“How old is he?”
The two hotel men looked at each other intently, wrinkled their brows, pulling their necks down into their shoulders as they shrugged again. Then the manager said, “Maybe middle age. We don’t know for sure.”
“That’s strange. That same guy seems to show up wherever I go. He must represent a competitor.” He slipped the manager some dollars and asked, “Would you let me know when this guy comes and goes?”
“Oh, happy to.”
“But keep this between us. Okay?”
“Yes, of course, monsieur. Yes, yes,” replied the manger, smiling excitedly.
“What room is this Russian fellow staying in?”
The manager excused himself, stepped over to the clerk, then returned to whisper to Mark, “He’s in three-forty-eight. But he just left.”
“Okay. Merci.”
Mark registered under a fake name as he slipped the manager more dollars. He was given room 326. He took the elevator to his room, then walked down to Yuri’s room, where he picked the lock. Noting Yuri’s small briefcase he carefully planted a small listening device in the seam of one flap without disturbing the bag in any manner. Then he left.
Yuri had returned not long after Mark had done his work. Then, a few minutes before nine, the manager called Mark and alerted him to Yuri’s departure. Mark thanked him profusely, hung up and stepped out on his balcony. Using night-vision binoculars, he spotted Yuri on the small dock at the north end of the marina and watched as the small motorboat picked him up and delivered him to the yacht. Mark now had time to search Yuri’s room more thoroughly. He carefully re-entered the room and went through all of the arms merchant’s belongings. A few brochures of MIG fighters and missiles and price lists of the company’s weapons Yuri had left behind interested Mark. After taking pictures of the materials, he put everything back in place and quietly left.
The next morning Mark noticed a well-dressed man coming to shore in a small motor launch and managed to get pictures. He watched as Ghaleb climbed the steps and followed the flowery walkways through the hotel’s gardens to the lobby. Mark went back into his room, then cautiously opened his door and walked down the hallway to the ice machine. He pretended to get ice as he kept an eye on Yuri’s door. He ducked from sight as Ghaleb came off the elevator onto the third floor. He heard Ghaleb gently tap on room three-forty-eight and then enter. Mark hurried back to his room to record the conversation.
He heard the arms transaction clearly. As soon as Ghaleb left Yuri’s room, Mark slipped down the south-side emergency stairs, out the door and through the garden to his own hotel. He went to his room, took a shower, shaved, checked out, and waited in his car until Yuri drove away. He followed Yuri to the airport and watched him board a non-stop flight to Marseille.
Mark then returned to the U.S. Embassy, called his Paris office and made his report. He requested a check on The Medallion through Istanbul. He hoped that other agents could identify the men aboard the yacht. He sat back and took a slow deep breath.
Two hours later Agent Andrew McCall called from Langley. “Mark, you landed at the right place at the right time. One of our agents in Istanbul has had several of these guys under surveillance for months and they’ve been pretty quiet. We think they are part of a new group that has splintered off from Al-Qaida in an attempt to reinvent themselves. But we don’t know for sure. He thought their joining a yacht party significant and sent in a report. Two of the yahoos are Saudi agents, two are Libyan and the others are from various Arab countries. Anyway, a big arms shipment seems to be their goal. Did you find anything to indicate the ultimate destination of these arms?”
“None,” Mark answered. “They’ll be picked up in Odessa, Ukraine, so we need to be present. I suspect the arms are headed to Arab countries, don’t you?”
“Well, let’s see. We need to know when this shipment’s taking place, so stay on your toes in Marseille. We’ve got the yacht under surveillance.”
“Fine. The French have the construction firm bugged so we’ll know when a large sum of money arrives at the Swiss bank. McCall, do you think those Russian guys have fifty million dollars worth of small arms left to sell?”
“If they don’t we’ll hear soon enough. The Mideasterners will be furious. The Arab fundamentalists do their homework well. If they didn’t think they could buy that amount of material cheaply, they wouldn’t have proceeded. I don’t think it’s a fishing expedition. Do you?”
“No, sir,” Mark responded.
McCall continued, “The Director and I have been discussing this for the last hour or so. We think the order will be processed within a week and that the Mideasterners will want those weapons shipped immediately. We’ll set up surveillance in the Ukraine, but you need to get over to Istanbul and stay on top of things. Oh, wait.”
Mark could hear the rustling of paper and a muffled voice. In a few minutes McCall continued. “I’ve just been handed a memo that the yacht belongs to the Sarioglu ShippingCompany. We will try to find out who leased it. Agent Angela Miller will meet you when you arrive in Istanbul and have things arranged.”
“Okay,” Mark said.
“We need to stay with the two main guys in this deal. We don’t think they’ll go back to their home country until they arrange the order and movement of funds and prepare for picking up the arms. There’s no doubt where the money’s coming from, but we need to document that anyway. Our biggest interest, as you know, is finding out the destinations of those arms.”
Mark got up from his desk chair and, stretching the phone’s cord, walked over to a window looking out on a busy street. “Are our relations with the Turkish military any better since the Iraqi war?”
“We just agreed to give them more F-Sixteens so they better be! We also must remember that they backed us in Afghanistan. The Islamist Welfare Party’s involvement in government is always going to be a problem. Libya’s Quaddafi has been courting the guy that’s head of it. And, of course, all the Muslim countries are wired in there. One way or another. That’s why these buyers are working out of Istanbul. They’ve got protection and help. But Agent Miller will fill you in on that. She’s been there for three years and knows the back alleys pretty well. She has also developed some fine sources within the government and industry. Have you had a chance to meet her yet?”
“No, I haven’t.” He paused to think a moment, then continued. “I find the fact that no one from the PLO office here in Tunis attended the meeting on the yacht very interesting. Why didn’t they attend?”
“Ummm. We have to assume that this particular arms purchase is run by the guys aboard the yacht. Besides, doesn’t the staff of that PLO Tunisian office maintain a low profile there?”
“According to the Embassy staff they do. They’ve had no problems here for the last several years.”
“Keep your head down anyway. There is no substitute for caution. I’ll be in touch when you get back to Paris. Let’s see what develops in the next few days.”
Mark caught a flight to Paris in late afternoon. He reached his office to find a report from McCall saying that The Medallion had dropped two men off in Tripoli. So, Mark thought, our intelligence has been right. The Libyans are involved. The last satellite report has The Medallion on a heading toward the Aegean Sea, so it’s probably heading back to Istanbul through the Dardanelles.
Mark called Agent Miller in Istanbul and found she had received orders from McCall to put The Medallion’s remaining passengers under surveillance when they docked. Several additional agents in the Ukraine had been called in to keep a twenty four-hour surveillance on the six Odessa warehouses used by Yuri’s group for storing arms. Mark kept close contact with the French as they continued monitoring Yuri’s construction company.
