Twice a Spy_ A Novel - Keith Thomson [98]
“I was on the tropical island prospecting,” Bream told Qatada. “Now I’ve got a prospect.”
Qatada smiled, maybe at the cricket game, maybe at the play of light on his water glass—who knew? Bream had given him no reason to be happy.
He was about to, though.
“You know how for a party, you write a check and a party planner does everything?” Bream asked. “He gets you the band, the cake, the hall—all for the exact day you want?”
“What about it?”
“I’ll run an op for you like that in two weeks, except instead of cake I’ll serve up an ADM.”
Qatada smiled again. “Sounds like quite a party.”
“The venue I have in mind is the municipal marina three hundred and seventy-five meters north of the hotel hosting the G-20.”
“The Grand Hotel near Mobile, Alabama?”
“Yeah, beautiful old resort.”
“The French delegation is planning to stay there.” Qatada spoke matter-of-factly. “I am guessing you knew that.”
“Think of them as your guests of honor. All you’ll be required to do is push a button, and you’ll strike the biggest blow possible for an Islamic state.” Qatada’s al-Jama’ah al-Islamiyah al-Musallaha, known here in France as Groupe Islamique Armé, sought to oust the current Algerian government.
Qatada sat back, lips pursed with skepticism. “Does the Fountain of Youth come with this package too?”
Bream laughed politely. “You know Nick Fielding?”
“I hope for your sake that he is not your supplier.”
“You mean ’cause he’s dead? That’s why I can get my hands on his ten-kiloton Russian ADM without any opposition from him.” Bream paused while the waitress deposited their plates of steak fries, then waited until she was out of earshot. “You know you can practically throw a rock from my place on Martinique to Fielding’s island, right?”
“No, I did not.” Qatada was rapt.
“I watched his act for three years. Not only that, I watched No Such Agency watching him—I even got myself hired on as copilot for a couple of their charters. After giving an envelope full of money to one of Fielding’s goons, I now know not only about Fielding’s ADM, but that he took its hiding place to his grave. Since he died, legions of spooks have tried and failed to find it.”
“But you can?”
“Yes. Then it’s yours, plug and play. I just need five million down to cover my expenses and another seven hundred and forty-five mil on delivery.”
The Groupe Islamique Armé’s principal benefactor, Algerian oilman Djamel Hasni, could write a check for $750 million on any one of a dozen of his accounts around the world.
“If I told Djamel that you asked for a billion dollars, he’d think seven hundred fifty million was a steal,” Qatada said. “His problem isn’t going to be the sale price; it’s going to be the salesman.”
“He’ll think I’m an American spook running a play for the United Satans of America?”
“Of course.”
“That would mean that the Air Force faked my dishonorable discharge, that I flew clunkers for four years in exile, and that I damn near destroyed myself with the cheap local rum all to build up cover for an op whose objective is to bag a couple of members of an Algerian terrorist group that no one’s heard of.”
Qatada ceded the point with a nod, but remained circumspect. “How would you get the device into the States?”
“That’s the easy part. I built myself an ironclad alias with access to a U.S.-flagged yacht that’s a fixture at the Mobile Bay Marina. You ante up, I’ll go get the yacht, cruise down to Martinique for a ‘pleasure trip,’ pick up a ‘souvenir’ along the way, then cruise on back to Bama.”
Qatada winced. “Take it from an expert: Since 9/11, your Homeland Security can’t install enough chem-bio-nuke detectors in your ports.”