Choke Point

“I’m not sure what you’re driving at,” Price said.

“Well, we’re kind of curious to know where that personal security was when John Jay Acres got snatched,” Lyons said. “And how come there wasn’t someone with Acres at all times in Washington. Seems to me that they’d have a better handle on what was going on if they were a professional team.”

“Unless there’s something to your theory about Biinadaz being on the Red Brood’s payroll,” Price replied. “It’s not unlikely Acres might have turned selection of the security team over to his personal assistant.”

“And so instead of selecting a legit outfit, Biinadaz saw an opportunity to get some of Khalidi’s human traffickers inside for this job,” Lyons said. “That’s a very sharp observation, Barb.”

“That’s why they pay her the big bucks,” Schwarz said close to Lyons’s ear.

The Able Team leader feinted swatting his friend. “Would you knock it off?”

“What?” Price said.

“Nothing,” Lyons replied. “Just Gadgets up to his usual antics.”

“Ah, of course. We’ll get the information to you shortly. You boys be careful.”

“Yes, mother. Out here.” Lyons broke the connection and said, “Okay. Let’s go have a cozy little chat with Biinadaz.”

CHAPTER SIX

Rabat, Morocco

Abbas el Khalidi studied the rocky cliff face off the shores of the capital city of Rabat. While the country of Morocco technically owned all coastal lands, Khalidi had wielded his influence to convince officials to lease this small area for “commercial purposes,” which resulted in some additional revenue for the government. In return, nobody looked too carefully at what he was doing. In fact, the contract allowed for government inspectors to enter the property boundaries at any time and for any purpose, although there wasn’t much to see. From this vantage point of the cliff face, which looked predominantly like sheer rock covered with lichen and coral pits, the remnant of volcanic seas long dead, the area appeared practically untouched.

At the base of those cliff faces, however, a much closer inspection would have revealed the three separate hidden entrances spaced approximately fifty yards apart. This area formed a sort of cove, although uninhabitable given the sharp, rocky outcroppings that met immediately with the waves of the Atlantic crashing against them. They formed a natural, inhospitable barrier, and it was for this very reason Khalidi had selected the site as the entrance to the underwater complex.

Natural underwater inlets had been dug into the cliffs, thousands of years of erosion slowly chipping away at their base, leaving behind the basalt and granophyres that formed natural and massive caves. From this infrastructure, Khalidi had hired some of the finest minds in archaeology and marine construction from points all over the world to design and build the infrastructure that supported the complex. Highly pressured iron and steel formed cross frames meshed by thick plates of Plexiglas eight inches thick and heat-sealed against the massive water pressure. Vents to the surface provided natural air movement, and a pair of twin, water-driven underwater turbines generated all of the electrical power needed by the vast complex.

Only one surface entrance existed, its location a secret to no more than the two dozen controllers and a complement of mercenary teams that resided on-site. From this base of operations, Khalidi moved the drugs, transporting them in specially designed flat-bottom launches capable of high speeds that moved the product from the shores to ships already in transit. A quick load of the hulls and in no time the ships were bound for ports throughout Europe and even a few distribution points in Southeast Asia.

On the other side, similar teams would off-load the drugs while still in international waters and the ships would arrive on schedule, if not ahead of time, carrying only the cargo on their manifests. It was this vast system of smuggling that had built wealth upon Khalidi’s wealth. Every employee underwent a rigorous screening and once in they all knew there was only one way out besides accepting a generous retirement package: attrition in Abbas el Khalidi’s outfit only occurred feetfirst. A few had managed to escape but none had ever been stupid enough to betray Khalidi—such an action would’ve spelled certain death.

Khalidi wasn’t stupid enough to think he hadn’t been extremely fortunate up until now. No operation of this nature lasted forever, so Khalidi proceeded under the guise of covert operations supposedly on behalf of the Moroccan government. Since there were officials within the highest halls of power who regularly consorted with Khalidi, some even on his payroll because public service in such a country didn’t exactly pay well, most never questioned what they were doing or why. It was an arrangement Khalidi knew he couldn’t maintain indefinitely, but to this point he’d operated with considerable autonomy.

When it all fell apart, he would simply pack up operations and move somewhere else.

Whatever happened, Khalidi had arranged things so that nothing could ever come back to him personally. He could continue to be “Prince Story” for his public, a champion and voice of the worldwide Muslim community, while reaping the profits that would keep his empire afloat probably long after he was dead. Khalidi considered that he would soon need to think of siring legitimate offspring, take a wife so that his children could carry on his legacy. The one thing Khalidi wanted more than all else was to secure the freedom of Islam: freedom from the enslavement of those who would use Islam for purely personal gain; freedom from the Westerners and their allies who wanted to destroy them; freedom from the oppression and poverty and hunger they had suffered in such places as Israel and Libya.

This...yes, this was the answer to his goals.

Khalidi took a deep breath and then turned and proceeded back to his Mercedes. He gunned the engine, put it in gear and then proceeded to the shore-top entrance accessible by a private road off the coastal highway just north of the city limits. He drove to the entrance, carved out of the living rock, presented his credentials to the guards with the pass-code of the day and then drove into the cavern that descended sharply to the underground parking area. From this point, it was a fifty-yard walk to a single-access lift that dropped nearly one hundred yards to the main area of the complex. The hiss of bubbles audible in the cavernous chamber dribbled toward the surface outside the main observation viewport, visible in the afternoon sun cutting through blue-green waters.

Occasionally, a shark would swim past, its outline faintly visible from the interior. Dolphins, sea porpoises and dozens of other species of marine life would shimmer along the perimeter of the viewport, occasionally stopping to look through the transparent barrier. They were clearly as curious with regard to the inhabitants within as their human counterparts were fascinated in return. The scene was so peaceful and surreal that Khalidi could not help but let it mesmerize him; this one thing had never really become workaday or routine to him.

The drug trafficker stopped to watch a school of remoras before turning and entering an antechamber that led to control center. Standing at one of the several computer terminals was Ebi Sahaf, Khalidi’s chief adviser and director of operations within the complex. Sahaf had first come into Khalidi’s employ as a technical adviser for Abd-el-Aziz, but Khalidi quickly realized the man’s potential after seeing him in action. Not only had Sahaf demonstrated his technical competence and ability to command men, but he was also a devout Muslim and faithful ally. Sahaf took to his new assignment like a dog to a bone. He’d proved his worth and loyalty more times than Khalidi could recall, and in this regard had become one of his leader’s closest friends and advisers.

“Good day, Abbas,” Sahaf said without even turning from the screen.

Although Sahaf spoke flawless Arabic, the British accent was evident in his voice—a clear sign of his upbringing in New Delhi. It was at university in India where he’d learned his technical skills and demonstrated his uncanny skills as both an information systems and structural engineer. It was a rare and unusual combination of skills and Khalidi had always admired Sahaf for his talent.

“How did you know I was here?”

“The guards called ahead, as they are instructed to do whenever you show for a surprise visit.”

“I would hardly call my visit a surprise,” Khalidi said, raising one eyebrow.

Sahaf turned and smiled. “I merely jest with you, Abbas. Don’t be so serious.”

“I’m a serious man with serious issues on my mind.”

“You speak of the recent incidents in America?”

Khalidi nodded and Sahaf looked around. The staff seemed otherwise preoccupied with their respective duties, but Sahaf, a man with a singularly suspicious nature, gestured for Khalidi to follow him to a location where they could talk privately. They entered a small conference room adjoining the complex and closed the heavy door behind them. They didn’t have to worry about being overheard or eavesdropping. A personal team—handpicked from the mercenary force that oversaw security—swept twice a day for surveillance devices, every door in the complex provided a waterproof and practically soundproof seal.

Khalidi took a seat at the conference table while Sahaf proceeded to a nearby coffeepot and prepared two single-size servings of strong Turkish coffee. Once he’d returned to a seat next to Khalidi and served him the cup filled with the dark liquid, he scratched his eyebrow beneath the lens of his bifocals and groaned inwardly.

“I must admit that the news troubled me, as well, when I heard it,” Sahaf said.

Khalidi took a sip from the cup before asking, “How did you find out?”

“During my regularly scheduled call with Ibn Sayed.”

Khalidi had always found it difficult to understand why Sahaf refused to call Genseric Biinadaz by his given name instead of the more formal Genseric Biinadaz Ibn Sayed. Of course, Sahaf had very traditional views in this regard, but he also saw Biinadaz as somewhat of an outsider given his affiliation with the Taliban party in Afghanistan.

“Were these men he had selected responsible for this debacle?” Khalidi inquired. “The information I’ve been given was not detailed.”

“It took some prodding but he was eventually forthcoming in saying these two men had gone rogue,” Sahaf replied with a shrug. “As far as I know, they were men that he cleared. Whether he knew about their plans to operate outside of protocols could never be proved by mere inquiry alone. Older, more tried methods would be needed to ascertain the truth.”

“It sounds as if you’re inferring some impropriety on Genseric’s part.”

“Not inferring so much as suggesting we not dismiss the possibility,” Sahaf said over his cup.

“Do you have any evidence?”

“I don’t. This is why I’ve not made any direct accusation. You know me better than this, I think.”

“Indeed I do.”

Sahaf took another sip and sighed. He stared at the half-empty cup for a time before saying, “I’ve never made it any secret there is a level of distrust I have for Ibn Sayed.”

“Yes,” Khalidi replied, “and this is not the first time we’ve had a discussion like this. What troubles me is that every time we talk about it you never seem to give me reasons why.”

“It’s because I do not wish to insult you.”

“It would take more than mere candor for me to think you were insulting me, old friend.”

“Honesty, then.”