Nahbi, p.17
Nahbi, page 17
The meeting ended twenty minutes later. It really hadn’t been needed. They simply did not know enough until after the briefing at MI6 headquarters the next day. It was obvious to Pete that Mrs. Moore had called the meeting in a clumsy and egotistical effort to establish herself as the senior U.S. representative at the MI6 briefing. She had tried to subordinate Roger Benson to herself and had utterly failed.
Wah, Pakistan
9:20 p.m.
A specially-modified Mercedes UR-416M armored personnel carrier left the weapons cantonment at Wah, Pakistan a few minutes late. Ibrahim Hasni, a Lance Corporal in the Pakistan Armed Forces, was driving. Sergeant Mohammed Ansari was in the passenger’s seat beside him.
Sergeant Ansari didn’t think they would run into much traffic on the outskirts of Islamabad at this hour. He could tell that Corporal Hasni was nervous too. What they were doing could get them both shot by a firing squad. Even so, the risk seemed worth taking. They would make more money on this one night than either of them earned in a year from their soldier’s pay.
Ansari felt lucky to have been assigned to the security force at the Wah weapons facility where most of Pakistan’s nuclear weapons were assembled. The facility was located 20 miles west-northwest of the Islamabad Capital District. Both nuclear and conventional weapons were stored there. His job wasn’t difficult but he was always looking for ways to make some extra money. When Dr. Ghilzai had asked him to help steal the nuclear artillery shells, he had readily agreed. Ghilzai had told him it was a two-man job so he should pick a driver he could trust. He had immediately thought of Ibrahim Hasni.
Ansari knew that Hasni came from a very poor family and that several of his relatives had been killed by CIA drone attacks along the Pakistan-Afghanistan border. Ibrahim was a simple man who believed most of the radical Islamist propaganda. When Ansari had told him how much he would make for one night’s work, he had instantly said yes.
Sergeant Ansari had prepared the paperwork just as Dr. Ghilzai had instructed. It showed that the Mercedes APC was transporting ten 8-inch shells to an artillery battery stationed east of Bhara Kahu. Five of the shells strapped securely into cradles in the back of the UR-416M were conventional high-explosive ordnance. The other five were tactical nuclear weapons. The weapons transfer forms that would later be signed by the battery commander to signify receipt and custody transfer showed only ten conventional shells.
“How far to where we make the swap?” Hasni asked.
“About ten miles. We should be there in twenty minutes. There’s a construction site near Margalla Pass. I’ll show you where to pull off.”
“And after we make the swap, we’ll just continue on to Bhara Kahu to deliver the other shells, right?” Hasni asked.
“Calm down corporal. You know that already. This will be the easiest money you’ve ever made. Before you know it, you’ll be a married man.”
A few minutes later, they turned into the construction site and saw headlights flash on and off briefly. As Corporal Hasni backed the Mercedes APC up behind the other vehicle, a man opened the SUV’s tailgate door and spread a tarp out close by. He waited for them to get out of the APC.
“Assalalm alaikum,” Sergeant Ansari said using a regional variation of the customary Pakistani greeting.
“Waalaikum assalaam,” the man responded without offering to shake hands and immediately turning to the business at hand. “The two of you will unload the special shells from the APC first. You can lay them on the tarp. Then, I want you to transfer the conventional shells from the SUV to the APC before you load the special shells into the wooden cradles in the back of the SUV. I would like to be finished and away from here in twenty minutes or less so please get started at once.”
Mohammed Ansari was irritated that he, a senior sergeant, was being ordered to perform manual labor in front of a junior enlisted man. But there was no mistaking the ring of authority in the voice of the man standing before him so he did as he’d been directed. The shells were heavy but easily managed by two men. The transfer was completed in almost precisely twenty minutes, just as the SUV driver had expected.
The SUV driver closed the tailgate and nodded to Ansari. Without speaking, he got into the SUV and drove away into the night.
“Khoodha haafis! Goodbye to you as well, you rude piece of camel dung,” Sergeant Ansari said under his breath. “Let’s get moving,” he said brusquely to Corporal Hasni. “If we’re lucky, we can make the delivery early and stop in Bhara Kahu for breakfast before we head back to Wah.”
Bari, Italy
5:38 p.m.
Abramo Sartori maneuvered the Ferretti 690 alongside the fuel pier in the port of Bari on the southeast coast of Italy. Franco and Fredo Rinaldi stepped onto the pier and tied the boat up.
Franco is twenty-five years old with a muscular physique, brown eyes, and short brown hair. Like many Italian young men, he often sports a three-day-old beard as part of an intentionally macho look that appeals to many women. He and his younger brother converted to Islam in their teens during a visit to Egypt to see their mother. They were both eventually recruited into the Muslim Brotherhood by their mother’s brother, Hakeem Ghanem.
Fredo is slender and almost fragile-looking in comparison to his older brother. Like Franco, Fredo also has brown eyes and short brown hair but young women often think he is pretty rather than handsome. Fredo is so shy that he has had only a few dates and is still a very frustrated virgin.
After cutting the engines, Abramo stepped into the yacht’s main cabin. “This will take a while,” he told his wife. “We need to take on quite a bit of fuel after our long trip today. When we’re finished refueling, we’ll move the yacht to the marina moorage so the young men can go ashore.”
“Who are these young women that your client has hired as companions for his nephews?” Donatella asked.
“I don’t know. We’ll just have to wait to see.”
The Rinaldi brothers left the yacht at 6:25 p.m. without saying when they’d be back. They stopped at a mobile phone shop where Franco paid cash for an inexpensive international cell phone and an untraceable pre-paid GSM SIM card.
At exactly 7:00 p.m., Teresa Giachetti’s phone rang. There was no caller ID displayed but she was pretty sure who it was.
“Buonasera. Who is calling please?”
“Signorina Giachetti, my name is Franco Rinaldi. Hakeem Ghanem is my uncle. He gave me your phone number and asked me to call you.”
“Yes. I was expecting your call. Where are you now?”
“My brother and I are in the lobby of the Palace Hotel.”
“Perfetto. Lia and I will meet you in the hotel bar at 9:00 p.m. Tell me how you’re dressed so we can recognize you.”
At 8:45 p.m., the Rinaldi brothers finished an excellent dinner in the Murat Restaurant on the seventh floor of the Palace Hotel. The old hotel was located in the center of town less than a half mile from the marina and had been a popular tourist destination for over seventy years. Its view of the old city was one of the best in Bari. Franco paid cash for their meal before they moved to the hotel’s bar.
They seated themselves in two upholstered chairs facing a sofa about twenty feet from the bar. Franco asked the waitress to bring them tall glasses of carbonated lime soda over crushed ice with slices of pineapple and lime. She gave him a questioning glance but nodded and went to the bar to place their order.
At three minutes after nine, two attractive women entered the bar and walked toward them.
Teresa Giachetti, the younger of the two, was a stunningly beautiful woman. Slender and tall, she was wearing a black cropped-top blouse tied high enough at her waist to show her flat tummy. The blouse’s deep-vee design and sheer fabric made it obvious that she wasn’t wearing a bra. She had an exceptionally pretty face with blue eyes, a pert nose, and perfectly-shaped lips. Although she wore very little makeup, her eye-shadow and eye-liner were skillfully applied, creating an intriguingly mysterious look. Her luxuriant long black hair hung well below her waist. Dressed in skin-tight designer jeans, and wearing expensive Gucci high-heeled sandals, she could easily have been mistaken for a fashion model.
Lia Pedrazzini was petite with a slightly fuller and more softly rounded figure than her friend. Her low-cut blouse and deep cleavage made a sexy impression that was just as effective as Teresa’s braless look. Her pale complexion was flawless and her berry-red lipstick emphasized her beautifully-shaped lips and contrasted nicely with her perfect, white teeth. She had a shy smile that was very appealing.
“Franco, amore mio, how are you?” Teresa Giachetti said somewhat loudly as she kissed him on both cheeks. This is my friend Lia. I was glad to hear from you. And this is your brother Fredo?”
“Yes,” Franco replied as Teresa shook hands with Fredo and he and Fredo shook hands with Lia.
Franco motioned to the waitress. Teresa ordered a vodka cranberry cocktail. Lia asked for a glass of white wine.
“It’s good to see you again.” Teresa said loudly enough to be sure the bartender could hear what she said. She often met clients in the bar but was always careful to leave the impression that she was just a local college girl joining friends for a few drinks. Some of the bartenders probably suspected that she was a lucciole or firefly, the Italian slang for a prostitute, but she always tipped generously and kept her business dealings very confidential.
They sipped their drinks and made small talk for thirty minutes until Teresa announced that she and Lia needed to go. They all stood up and the women kissed the men on their cheeks and left the bar.
A few minutes later, the Rinaldi brothers paid their bar tab with cash and left the hotel. As soon as they stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the hotel, the back door of a limousine parked nearby opened. Teresa stepped out of the back door and motioned them to come. Franco got into the back seat between the two women. Fredo took the passenger seat beside the driver. Franco asked the driver to raise the glass partition.
“Business first. Let’s see the money,” Teresa said matter-of-factly.
Franco handed each of the women a fat envelope. They opened their envelopes and took a few moments to count the money. Both of them had been cheated before but, as they’d been promised, each envelope contained fifty 100-Euro bills.
“You’ll both get the other 5,000 euros when we reach Alexandria. My uncle also told me I could give you each a 2,000 Euro bonus if you do a good job.”
“What does doing a good job mean?” Teresa wanted to know. “You need to understand right now that we won’t do anything grossly perverted and we won’t do threesomes or have sex with each other in case that’s what turns you on.” Teresa knew that some men considered prostitutes easy prey for their perversions and cruelty so she always made sure her rules were understood up front. If she had any doubt about a client, she simply walked away.
Franco turned to face her and gave her a blank stare for a long moment before asking, “When my uncle made the arrangements, didn’t he tell you that we don’t expect to have sex with you? We’re Muslims.”
Teresa was caught completely off-guard. When she’d agreed to accept Ghanem’s business proposal, she’d thought that she and Lia would be taking care of the sexual appetites of a couple of wealthy young men on a short cruise on a luxury yacht. Now, this handsome young man was telling her that there would be no sex involved.
“Excuse me,” Teresa said incredulously. “You expect us to believe your uncle is willing to pay us 10,000 euros each simply to keep you and your brother company on a five-day cruise?”
“Yes,” Franco answered simply. “Adultery and fornication are prohibited by the Koran.”
“Incredulitá!” Teresa leaned forward so she could see Lia’s face.
Lia was smiling. Teresa knew she’d felt guilty about leaving her husband alone with their three-year-old daughter for five days, but they had agreed that the money was too good to pass up. Lia’s husband had lost his job two years earlier and she’d become a firefly to pay their bills. Lia had told Teresa that her husband was tormented by mental images of what she did with her customers. He would be happy to find out she’d been paid so much money without having to have sex with anyone.
But Teresa was suspicious. There had to be more to it than Franco was telling them. The money was too good. Any nice girl would have been glad to earn even half that amount if all they had to do was be a pleasant companion on a luxury yacht for a few days. So why hire prostitutes if no sex would be involved?
And why hadn’t a couple of college girls been hired in Venice instead of in Bari? The only thing that made sense to her was that perhaps their uncle was one of those men who believed it was good for young men to experience sex before marriage. Maybe he’d been considerate of Signor Sartori and his wife by not hiring lucciolas who lived and worked near their home and business. As she mulled it over in her mind, she became convinced that the uncle fully expected his nephews to have sex with them during the cruise. With that conclusion, she decided it would be OK. After all, that was how she and Lia made a living.
Teresa turned so she could look Franco straight in the face. “OK. No sex, if you’re sure that’s the way you want it.”
A few minutes later, the limousine parked on the pier near the yacht. Teresa gave a low whistle of appreciation as she realized that they would be spending several days on one of the most beautiful yachts the Ferretti Company had ever produced. Living in the port city of Bari, where beautiful yachts are common, she’d only seen one other Ferretti 690 and had never been aboard one.
The limousine driver sat the women’s luggage on the pier. Franco paid him in cash and included a generous tip. Franco and Fredo walked toward the yacht but did not offer to take the women’s roll-aboard luggage for them. Teresa looked at Lia, who just shrugged.
Once on board, Franco showed the women to the cabin they would share. It had a queen-size bed and a private bath and toilet area. Teresa could tell that Lia was impressed by the beautiful décor and that she was relieved that they wouldn’t be sleeping with the men. This would certainly not be a normal lucciole experience.
“Where will you and Fredo sleep?” Teresa asked Franco.
“We don’t want to share a bed so we’re taking the crew cabin. It has two twin bunks.”
When they went forward to the yacht’s main cabin, Franco introduced Teresa and Lia to Signor and Signora Sartori. Donatella looked at the young women suspiciously but greeted them in a friendly enough manner. After the introductions were over, Abramo asked for their attention.
“We’ll be leaving Bari at 6:00 a.m. tomorrow morning so I think everyone should get to bed. I’d like to be through the Strait of Otranto and out of Italian waters by noon if possible. The yacht can easily maintain a 24-knot cruising speed so we should enter the Ionian Sea shortly after noon. I expect that we’ll reach our next refueling stop at Poros Harbor in Lixouri on the Greek island of Kefallania before dark. There is no fuel pier in Poros Harbor so I’ve arranged for a tanker truck to meet us on the quay at 6:00 p.m.
“Lia and Teresa, welcome aboard,” Abramo said with a smile. “I hope you’ll enjoy our trip to Alexandria. Franco and Fredo, I want to thank you both for taking the helm several times today to give me a break. It was a long day for me. Tomorrow, on the way to Lixouri, I’ll give you more instruction on how to handle the yacht without me.”
Islamabad, Pakistan
12:18 a.m.
After his rendezvous with the soldiers, Yousef Abu Shakra had driven the SUV to a coin-operated car wash where he’d taken his time giving the vehicle a thorough cleaning while watching carefully to ensure that he was not being followed. From there, he’d driven a circuitous route around the northern part of the Capital District until he was certain that he was not being tailed. Just before midnight, he backed the SUV into the double garage of the villa occupied by the Egyptian Ambassador to Pakistan and hit the button on the sun visor to close the garage door.
Ambassador Al-Zeid had been waiting for him and came immediately into the garage followed by Dr. Bashir Ghilzai and a young nuclear engineer named Tariq Zardari. Yousef knew that the engineer was one of Dr. Ghilzai’s protégés.
“All went as planned?” Hassan Al-Zeid asked his driver.
“Yes sir,” Abu Shakra replied. The devices are in the back of the SUV.”
“Very good, Yousef,” the Ambassador said. “You’ve had a busy day.” The Ambassador turned and went back into the house to get some sleep. He had provided his schedule to Yousef the previous day. He and his wife would be leaving Islamabad International Airport at 4:15 p.m. on Qatar Airways flight 615. They would spend a week at the Ritz Carlton Sharq Village and Spa in Doha, Qatar. They would land in Cairo around 5:00 p.m. on Friday, June 6th and would spend the weekend with old friends. The Ambassador would meet with the Egyptian President at 10:00 a.m. on Monday, June 9th before continuing on to his home in Alexandria later that day. Yousef would be there when the Ambassador and his wife arrived.
Yousef helped Zardari unload the shells. They placed them in a special cradle on top of a sturdy metal table at the front of the garage. A wire ran from the table to the grounding bus inside the circuit breaker panel on the outside wall of the garage. The tips of the shells were pointed toward the wall with the bases facing outward so they were accessible. Fluorescent lights above the table provided ample light for the scientist and engineer to work. Four specially-modified steel scuba tanks were in the corner. A fifth tank was also a modified scuba tank but was painted Green and fitted with a bulbous cap to resemble a medium-size industrial oxygen tank.
