Gauntlet (15 page)

I
T WAS FIVE IN THE MORNING in Islamabad. Yousseff was now in the small personal apartment that he kept in one corner of his large hangar. He was exhausted and sleeping like the dead. Marak woke him with a sharp knock on his door.

“I’m coming, Rasta,” he called in an irritated tone. When they were together, he often used Marak’s tribal nickname. It was also useful for times when their real names were dangerous or inconvenient. Or when they were dealing with strangers, as they would be today. And the man did indeed have the eyes of a snake — slate gray, almost black, and unblinking. And he had a demonic-looking cobra tattooed across his left upper arm and shoulder. Despite his size, he also had the lightening-quick speed and instinct of his namesake. “Get Badr up.”

He was referring to his pilot, Badr al-Sobeii, who had been with the ragtag Afghanistan Air Force during the Taliban’s rule. He flew all manner of craft — fixed wing, fighter jet, helicopter, whatever. If it could gain elevation, Badr could fly it. In all, Yousseff had eight pilots on his staff. Besides Badr, there were two here in Islamabad. A third pilot, Abu bin Mustafa, was as skilled as Badr, and was currently overseeing the last step of the Libyan operation. Two more lived and worked out of the Karachi hangar, and two others were in Long Beach. They were all essential to his organization.

Yousseff rose and began to prepare for his day. He did not bother with breakfast, but quickly showered, shaved, and met Marak and Badr outside his door. As he walked out of the apartment, he glanced around the Islamabad hangar. He had similar apartments in the Jalalabad, Karachi, and Long Beach hangars, where he often did business. Each was absolutely identical in size, furnishings, and personal effects. Even the colors of the toothbrushes were the same. He spent more time in these hangar apartments than he did anywhere else, and needed them to be as much like home as possible. In the opposite corner of each hangar were small offices, each with a few chairs and a desk. Marak and Yousseff turned in that direction, while Badr went to check the plane.

As the industrial lights in the hangar were turned on, Yousseff could see, in addition to the Gulfstream, three helicopters, two Jet Rangers, and an upgraded Westland EH-101, with modified GE TH-700 engines. Theoretically, it could fly at elevations of up to 22,000 feet. So far it had negotiated mountain passes at 18,000 feet, which was nerve-racking even for Marak, though Yousseff, with his love of the sky, had found it exhilarating. The hangar also housed a large single-engine King Air, and a smaller Cessna. A large and well-equipped machine and maintenance shop was located along one wall, manned by two full-time mechanics. Everything was always in perfect running order. This part of Yousseff’s enterprise was essentially a large transportation company; it couldn’t be run on equipment held together with duct tape.

“Are we organized, Rasta?” Yousseff asked.

“Yes, we are. The scheme is nicely planned.”

“All the details? Everything?”

“Yes, of course. Everything,” Marak replied.

“Who do we meet with first?”

“Vijay Mahendra. The computer whiz. He will be working with Ghullam on putting the cover-up in place.”

“Excellent,” said Yousseff. This was part of his standard fare — creating diversions and cover-ups parallel to the main plan. He knew that the Western powers would leave no stone unturned in tracking down the culprits behind the plan he had set in motion. The cover-up and the plan had to proceed in lockstep if they were to work, and if he was going to be safe afterwards. A plan was not a plan until it had a backup, and then a backup to the backup.

Also in accordance with Yousseff’s usual MO, Marak would do the talking. Yousseff always took great pains to keep himself in the background, while someone else did the dirty work for him. He let Marak take the lead as they walked toward the opposite corner of the hangar, where the office was already lit up and waiting for them. He opened the door himself, ushering Marak inside.

A slender, clean-shaven, and restless young Indian man, in his early 20s, was sitting in one of the bamboo chairs. He was wearing rimless glasses, and could do with a haircut. Vijay Mahendra, the Emir’s computer expert. He stood up to greet them as they came in. As agreed, Marak carried the conversation. Yousseff, dressed in simple peasant clothes, remained mute.

Marak laid the scheme out slowly for Vijay. Or at least he outlined the aspects for which they would need Vijay’s formidable talents. It involved half a dozen break-ins, and a lot of computer manipulation. There were clarifications, and details, and then more discussion. At length Vijay agreed, which was fortunate for him. Had he, after the information that had been discussed, told them sorry, no deal, Marak would have snapped his neck like a twig, and dropped him into some appropriately deserted riverbed.

“Yes, I can do the computer stuff. It is not too difficult. But break-ins? Police? I am not sure I can deal with that,” said the young man.

“No need,” said Marak. “No need at all. You will have all the assistance and support you require. All you need to do is access the computers. Everything else will be done for you.”

“Fine. Good,” said Vijay. “We need to talk money.”

“No problem,” Marak answered. “But you will be paid in cash. In American dollars. Will that be a difficulty for you?”

“No. It would be nicer. No taxes.” This response made it immediately obvious to Yousseff that Vijay did not have an inkling about the true nature of Yousseff’s enterprise. There was no hesitation whatsoever, no momentary struggle with principles or conscience. He smiled to himself at this show of youth.

After half an hour of haggling over details and payment, they had the deal sorted out. As Vijay was leaving, he finally nodded to Yousseff, who had not been introduced, but had not spoken a single word.

“Who is this man?” he asked, pointing to Yousseff.

“Ah, he’s a Pashtun peasant. The gardener. Does the landscaping around here. A friendly bastard — loyal but stupid,” said Marak, with an immense grin. “Dumb as a post.”

Yousseff held his tongue. Over the years he had become more and more obsessed with protecting his identity. Most days, in Pakistan or Afghanistan, he dressed as he had this particular day. Sometimes he would elevate himself to wearing jeans with an old sweater or perhaps an aging shirt. When the situation demanded it, he could easily pass for an aristocrat, but generally he avoided the Gucci outfits. He was the same way about the other aspects of his life. He was constantly hiding his identity, or changing it. He had Canadian, American, Mexican, Pakistani, and Afghani passports, all in different names. He disguised or hid his presence everywhere he went. This was also true of all his possessions. The legal ownership of the hangars, the properties, and the aircraft was characteristic of how Yousseff owned and operated any asset. His name was not associated in any way. There was a Byzantine system of trusts and numbered companies, with one owning the other, and controlling yet a third or even a fourth. If someone had the time, effort, and resources to apply, and had the political power or the skill to breach the seemingly impervious walls of security and nondisclosure found in places like Liechtenstein, Switzerland, and the Caymans, their search would still come to a dead end. Even if the thread of ownership could be untangled and divined from all of these legal devices, the ultimate owner of a company would be listed as Badr, Mustafa, Izzy, Ba’al, Marak, Rika, or any one of a dozen other individuals. The deeds and title documents of the vast poppy fields in Afghanistan held names other than Yousseff’s. “There is no such thing as ownership,” Yousseff would say from time to time. “There is only control.”

It seemed to Yousseff that he had always known that business had to be done in this obscure manner. That way there would be no paper trail, and less danger. By the time he reached his early 20s, he had taken care to become all but invisible, with business always being done through surrogates.

At the sound of Marak saying goodbye, Yousseff pulled his attention back into the office. The meeting was ending, and Marak was escorting Vijay to the door. Once he’d seen the young man out, Marak picked up the telephone and dialed a number. “Please come now,” was all he said. Ten minutes passed in silence, then there was a knock on the front door of the office. Yousseff directed Marak to open it and saw Mahari Dosanj, a rising star reporter with Al Jazeera. The young Mahari had one major shortcoming — he was married to a woman who spent money endlessly, no matter how he reprimanded her. He loved her deeply, but could not support her spending on the salary of a reporter. Far from it. He had descended precipitously into a death spiral of debt and was now flirting with bankruptcy. Most men would probably have left such a woman, but he could not imagine life without her. Yousseff had learned about these circumstances, and had decided that the time had come to exploit them.

An intense discussion soon started between Mahari and Marak. Mahari was not interested in what Marak had to say, and did not want to hear about the deal he was being offered by people he saw as lawless hooligans. Yousseff shrank noiselessly against a corner, allowing Marak to sort things out. After some threats and posturing on Marak’s part, Mahari finally realized that he was in tough with some scary people, and that there was no easy way out of the situation.

“Here is the first DVD,” said Marak in even tones. “It contains the first message. There will be a number of others. If you betray me, if you break your word on this, I will feed your body to the dogs, little bits at a time. While you watch. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Yes, yes sir. Yes I do,” Mahari stuttered.

“I, or one of my men, will notify you of further messages,” continued Marak. “And with each, we will provide you with one of these briefcases, filled with American dollars. Each contains a quarter of a million, more or less. All that is required is that you take the message that we give you and get it on Al Jazeera airwaves immediately.”

Marak flipped the Samsonite briefcase open, and Mahari gazed hungrily at its contents. In the corner, a small smile curled around Yousseff’s lips. It was always the same, he thought. The hunger for mountains of money. This was $250,000 in cash, which Yousseff considered more of a millstone than anything else. He had, in his various houses and fortresses around the globe, rooms and barns full of the stuff. He couldn’t buy or expand businesses quickly enough to absorb it. And this man, this reporter, was willing to put his life and career in danger just to get his hands on it.

“Do we understand each other?” Marak repeated.

Mahari shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Yes, we do. I will not betray you. But I do have a concern.”

“And that is...” said Marak softly.

“The Americans will come looking for me. They may find me. They may find this DVD and that will end all of this. I would be looking at a lifetime in some miserable Karachi jail cell.”

“I will protect you. If necessary, the police forces of both Islamabad and Rawalpindi will protect you. No harm will befall you. You have my word on this,” said Marak.

Mahari smiled weakly. He found little comfort in Marak’s disturbing eyes, and had been around long enough to know that he couldn’t trust people like this. Had he known what was happening to Zak Goldberg at that moment, he would have run screaming for the door.

“And what of this DVD here?” he asked, pointing to the silvery disc lying on the desktop. “When do I do the story for Al Jazeera?”

“Why, now of course. You have been paid. Deliver it to your employer. Do the story,” commanded Marak.

“And if I am pushed by anyone to reveal your name or identity?”

“It is journalist confidentiality. The Americans understand the concept very well. You protect your sources. And, as a further inducement, if you do not protect your sources, you will die. Slowly.” Marak hissed his last words.

“Yes. Thank you. I understand. I will be on my way, then,” said a shrinking Mahari. The young reporter was obviously aching to be out of the room.

“Oh, one more thing, Mahari,” said Marak. Mahari halted halfway out the door.

“Yes?”

“Do not throw that money around. Do not tell your woman. Stuff it away in a corner someplace. You can go wild with it once this project is done.”

Marak glanced at Yousseff at that point, and the two understood one another perfectly. Marak knew what his own task would be once the project was done. Mahari would never have the chance to spend any of the money.

“I will be careful, sir,” Mahari said, opening the outside door of the hangar and stepping out into the blazing August sun.

W
HEN THE DAY finally grew dark, the meetings were concluded, and the last of the loose ends put together, Yousseff bid Marak farewell and boarded the sleek Gulfstream. “Let’s get to Karachi, Badr,” he said, settling into a soft leather reclining seat.

They taxied to the main runway and, after a short wait, roared down the strip and rocketed skyward. The familiar rush of power was as intoxicating as it had always been for Yousseff. But he wondered if the dual engines could be tweaked a bit more, to extract even more horsepower. He should broach the topic with Kumar.

As they flew, the winding Indus River appeared 40,000 feet below them, and Yousseff turned his thoughts again to his younger self. He had begun to think more and more about his formative teenage years as the pieces of this new plan started to come together. Perhaps it was another way to escape the stress of what he was now setting out to do. He had no experience with the kind of destruction he was planning, and he wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. But he had decided to use the Emir to gamble everything he had on this one mission. If things went well, he would be able to take a break from everything else, and relax for a while. It was a breathtaking chance, but these kinds of moves had characterized Yousseff’s path from his earliest years. How old had he been when he took his father and uncle’s horses through the Path of Allah? Twelve? Thirteen? How old had he been when he became Marak’s master at Four Cedars? This plan, this high-stakes chess match, was no different. He wondered why he was suddenly filled with trepidation and uncertainty. Why was he so afraid of failure now, when he had created the Karachi Drydock and Engineering Company, Pacific Western Submersibles, the chains of stores on the West Coast in America and Canada, and the Karachi Star Line, all without any fear or uncertainty? Was this the creeping insidiousness of the years? Was he getting too old for this job? He let his mind drift as he considered. He longed for his opium pipe, but his pilots had made it clear to him that it would not be tolerated on the planes, regardless of whether he owned them or if Mohammed himself had ordered it. Yousseff closed his eyes instead, and thought back to the beginning.