Executive Intent

“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 ma

“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.