Chapter 21
Abu Dhabi, Emirates Palace Hotel, Royal Khaleej Suite. The suite is furnished with 61-inch flat screen TVs in every room, marble and gold finishing and luxury appointments throughout, as well as 24/7 concierge service.
Seated on the plush sofas are two westerners and an Arab prince. All three of them are sipping vintage malt whiskey.
“Nice hotel,” said Cardoni, who was dressed in a midnight blue suit, linen shirt and polka dot silk tie.
“Here I am 30 minutes after arriving at the airport and I didn’t have to deal with the usual crowd of actors, tennis players, formula one pilots and high-priced call girls.”
“Perhaps,” said Edmundo Gutierrez, dressed in a multi-colored shirt, kaki pants and loafers without socks. “But personally I like to be surrounded by pretty women, even if they are not for free. You only live once.”
The prince smiled and sipped his whiskey. Cardoni ignored the Mexican’s comments and continued:
“The attacks in Rome will change the course of history to a greater extent than the ones on 9/11 to the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. The goal was to hit at the heart of Christianity and cause a worldwide clash of religions and cultures. Based on what is happening in the Western world, the people behind the attacks in Rome knew exactly what they wanted to achieve. Every day dozens and hundreds of Muslims are killed in punitive actions that are bringing matters to a boiling point. And it is happening spontaneously, despite all the appeals for tolerance. Even the Pope has repeatedly spoken out against generalizations that end up harming innocent people.”
The Arab prince sighed and he poured himself another drink.
“But who is to say things are really what they seem?” interjected Edmundo Gutierrez. “Let’s be practical. We know from all our informants that Al Qaeda initially wanted to deny responsibility for the Rome attacks. Then they decided to claim it even though it’s obvious the attacks were not the work of a doped up suicide bomber. This is the work of real professionals who can count on local networks. Placing explosives on subway tracks and in the Bernini colonnade takes teamwork. I say with all due respect for young Muslim martyrs, dear prince.”
“So what is your conclusion?” asked Cardoni, irritated at having been interrupted.
“The most likely hypothesis is that it’s the work of the Russian Mafia with the help of some splinter Italian organized crime gang that wants to operate independently of the Sicilian Mafia, the Camorra, the ‘Ndrangheta or the United Sacred Crown. After all, we have seen their level of technical professionalism – just think of the guys who murdered Judge Falcone and Judge Borsellino in Sicily.”
It was obvious that Edmundo Gutierrez was well informed on the matter.
Cardoni replied: “It’s an issue of who stands to benefit, ‘cui prodest’ in old latin.”
“We are dealing with a situation in which the diverging interests of Russia and the U.S. actually coincide in terms of objectives. The U.S. needs to achieve a drastic reduction in oil imports from Saudi Arabia. And so there is an incentive to rev up the thousand year old fight between Shiites and Sunnis, reach into the Arab world and take on Iran, which – now that Saddam Hussein is gone – is trying to extend its influence over Iraq which has gone Shiite. To cut down on crude oil consumption you have to invest in renewable technology. It’s just like when Kennedy decided to challenge the Soviet Union in space technology.”
Edmundo Gutierrez lit a Havana cigar, even though he knew his smoking bothered Cardoni. “The Russian Mafia’s goal is to undermine the unity of the crude oil producers, eliminate the Arabs and then Venezuela. Russia today dominates Europe in terms of energy. Just imagine what would happen in Italy if Russia cut off the oil flow.”
The prince nodded in agreement and poured his third whiskey.
Edmundo Gutierrez was an experienced politician and he could tell that what he said was having an effect.
“Dear prince, the attacks in Rome have unified the hatred for Islam. It’s a hatred that crosses the borders and the cultural differences of all the countries threatened by years of foreign terrorism. Hatred of Arabs and their oil stimulates the environmentalists. And an increasing number of countries are turning to renewable energy sources.”
The prince put down his drink and added: “It’s true. The one most adversely affected by all this chaos is Saudi Arabia. As for our problems with Iraq and Tehran, there should be no doubt that we know how to deal with them. I don’t need to go into further details. And as for the U.S., there has to be a new big shock that will divert attention from the Arab world. Eliminating America’s President – who is a fervent promoter of renewable energy – is what must be done and soon. And it should be laid at the feet of American domestic terrorism. It won’t be the first time for the U.S. and it will change the direction of world affairs for at least fifty years.”
__________________________________________________
Chapter 22
The Mustang headed over Chain Bridge and turned on to Route 123, one of Virginia’s main roads. After several miles the car stopped at a light. The entrance to the CIA headquarters is on the right. On January 25, 1993 a Pakistani named Mir Aimal Kasi, who had entered the U.S. illegally using a fake Green Card, had stopped his van right there. He then got out and with an AK-47 machine gun started shooting at the male passengers of cars stopped at the red light. The females were spared because Islam prohibits hurting women. Two CIA officers on their way to work were killed and three persons were seriously injured.
Mir Aimal Kasi then got back into the van and drove to a McDonald’s where he ate a hamburger and fries. He then went to his motel room and the next day left for Pakistan. No one had identified the shooter and there were no cameras at the stoplight.
CIA and FBI agents scoured the world searching for information that would lead to the capture of the criminal. FBI agents, in another blow for the CIA, identified and captured Mir Aimal Kasi four years later in Pakistan. He was brought back to the U.S. and sentenced to death. He was executed in 2002.
This day, as he did every time he pulled up at the light, agent X12 thought of that sad day. He then turned into the CIA’s entrance driveway. At the entrance, Marines checked underneath his car with mirrors, opened the trunk, and scanned his badge to make sure it was authentic.
“Have a nice day!” said the sergeant on duty. “Why not?” murmured agent X12. “The best is yet to come…” The next security officer aimed a laser pen at the agent’s right eye and scanned his retina.
Having verified his identify, she told him the meeting was being held on the second floor in conference room number 5. The room wasn’t very big and most of the space was taken up by the large conference table and surrounding twelve chairs. Large screens indicating real time in the parts of the world where the CIA was operating were on the walls. Agents and officers had already taken many of the seats.
Agent X12 smiled and nodded at the ones he knew. At exactly 10:00 the door opened and the intelligence director entered. His deputy and a couple of young agents accompanied him. The young guys must be very good at their jobs to have risen so quickly, agent X12 thought to himself.
The director was a thin man. His age was hard to pin down, but he was probably close to sixty. His voice was monotone and cutting.
“Al Qaeda’s claiming responsibility for the bomb attacks in Rome is a fabrication dreamt up by the Russian Mafia in collaboration with the Italian Mafia. The goal is to damage the image of the Arab countries and Saudi Arabia in particular. Unfortunately these events have had a domino effect that impacts our security. One thing is certain: they are aiming at taking out the President. Why? Because the crude oil OPEC nations share common interests and because the President’s commitment to renewable and alternative energy technologies is a threat. Now, more than ever, the Agency must safeguard the President and the nation. This is our mission and I am asking each one of you to operate at your maximum physical and mental capacity and to coordinate and motivate our collaborators and informants wherever they may be. You will report only to me. You are to begin preparing reports immediately.”
Those present started leaving, except for the director who remained seated as he reviewed some files. The last to get up was agent X12.
“Stay for a moment” said the director. “I see you managed to get nicked,” he added gesturing at the cast on the agent’s left shoulder. It is a long story that caused everybody a lot of trouble even though, luckily, your ties to the Agency never surfaced. Less said about us, the better. We took care of the media and nothing was mentioned anywhere. Now, however, we don’t know what to do with you.”
Agent X12, Michael Bardi, withstood his director’s frontal attack. Behind him the two young assistants were smiling at the thought of his being cut down to size.
“May I speak, sir?” asked Michael.
“You have a mouth,” the director replied sharply.
“With all due respect, I am asking you to have faith in me and in my covert ops. The person who shot me is almost certainly responsible for other recent murders in the greater Washington area. He’s not a loose cannon ‒ he’s a trained killer acting on behalf of transnational entities whose goal, among others, is as you mentioned to assassinate the President. As for my private life… well I don’t have one. All of my relationships, and I mean all of them, are tied to my mission.”
“You are authorized to continue, at least for now. You must give me a weekly report sent in the usual secure way. But try to be more careful in terms of your private life. I am referring to a recent trip to Acapulco. You may go now.”
Michael Bardi left the CIA headquarters. He was extremely angry, but managed to calm down. Before getting back into his rented Mustang he stopped at the CIA memorial of the victims of the Route 123 shooting.
___________________________________________________
Chapter 23
“Every time I see it I am amazed by its beauty.” Mauro Ciaparro and his friend Luigi Ferrario were admiring the church of Saint Basil in Red Square.
“Just think,” continued Ciaparro, “the first time I came here was in 1968. I was a student and the Party sent me to take a course at Lomonosov University.”
“It was a completely different Russia from now,” said Ferrario.
“Yes, but it was fascinating. We Italians had been enjoying an economic boom. When we got to the Soviet Union it was as if we had gone 40 years back in time, even though as Party members we didn’t want to admit it.”
“Life must have been hard then.”
“Everyone walked around with an expandable shopping bag called avoska where you put whatever you managed to find, often after standing in line for hours. Once I traded a brand new guitar for a couple of pounds of potatoes. But in Italy our propaganda boasted of Moscow’s subway that was and still is a marvel, of the big Stalinesque buildings that imitated American skyscrapers and were beginning to delineate the city’s skyline, and of the beauty of the Kremlin. I have a story for you. The first time I went to the Kremlin Museum together with a few other tourists they made us put cloth covers over our shoes so we wouldn’t scratch the parquet floors. There were signs saying smoking was forbidden and guess what language they were in? Italian.”
Ciaparro and Ferrario had arrived that morning on an Aeroflot flight from Rome to Sheremetyevo International Airport – one of the three airports, the other two being Domodedovo and Vnukovo, which served Russia’s capital city. Mauro Ciaparro was about sixty-five years old, but didn’t look it. He was in good shape thanks to genetics, his regular workouts at the gym and the fact that he trained for marathons. Luigi Ferrario was about forty-five and was no looker. His belly was clear evidence of how much he enjoyed a good meal and a good bottle.
Mauro Ciaparro felt nostalgic. They strolled around Red Square surrounded by tourists from all over the world, all enjoying the rare mild autumn weather.
“Those were strange times, Luigi. We were watched day and night. If you went out with a girl you could rest assured she had to make a daily report on you to some official. You had to be careful not to utter any non-orthodox comments. The French who, as usual, thought they could be critical of the USSR ended up experiencing what it feels like to be interrogated by the special police. And then they were shipped back home. Plus there was the problem of shared living quarters…”
“Well, that was still going on in parts of Italy…”
Ciaparro looked at Ferrario and smiled. “Sure. But you have to know that outside each apartment there was a sign that listed the number of rings for each family, as there was one family in each room. When a girl invited me to “home,” meaning the room she shared with friends, the pots on the stove in the shared kitchen had locks. I can’t even describe the bathroom. Privacy consisted of roommates putting their heads under the blanket and laughing at any sounds of intimacy coming from the other bed.”
“How do you feel being here now, with everything so different?” asked Ferrario. By now they had drawn near the Lenin’s Mausoleum.
“It’s a whole different world. Then the misery affected everyone at the lower levels of society: workers, doctors, and artists. The privileged class consisted of Party members and they were a minority. They could afford to go to the Berioska stores where you could buy goods from the west as long as you paid with dollars and not rubles. Now look around: chaotic traffic, limousines like in America, high fashion boutiques… Look: this is Lenin’s mausoleum containing the embalmed body of the father of the Soviet Union. Then there used to be an endless line of visitors, almost all Soviets. They waited hours and hours to get in. The Italians who were here on business instead could march right up to the entrance guards and say, ‘Italianskaia Delegatsia’ and jump ahead of all those people waiting in the cold.”
They walked towards Lubyanka Square. Luigi Ferrario asked his friend, “You still haven’t told me how they contacted you…”
“Through the mail. Phones and text messages are checked. They sent us the tickets and set up the restaurant where we are to meet tonight. They will find us a place to sleep. I don’t think it will be a hotel because it’s better not to leave any traces. Tomorrow, when we leave with the last flight for Rome there will be a stopover in Vienna – I don’t know why – and they will pay us the rest of what they owe us for the job.”
“Mauro, let me remind you that they promised us repeatedly we would be paid for the job. But except for a small advance we haven’t received anything. Are you sure your friends aren’t tricking us? I have no interest in being a tourist…”
“Relax, Luigi. It will all work out. These are serious people and at the highest levels…”
Nessun commento:
Posta un commento