The Odd Man Out
Chapter 11
The greedy rag heads paid him well for what he was doing for them. That much he could say about the miserable bastards he worked for. He actually detested them, all of them, and thought they were a bunch of unsophisticated Bedouins who’d lucked out by having huge reserves of oil and natural gas below their feet. It was a geographic and geological accident of birth and nothing more in his misanthropic mind. However, as long as their wire transfers continued to be promptly deposited into his Cayman Islands bank account, he was satisfied. So far, so good, he thought. At least they paid their bills on time and he’d never been shorted or stiffed on the payments.
The Liberty Bay hijacking went well and now his al-Shabaab contact in the Puntland was negotiating with the ship’s American owners. In a sense, the Americans had become good Arabs since they now haggled back and forth as to the amount of the ransom. So the price was always set high knowing it would be negotiated down. It didn’t matter to him and his employer as to the amount of money ultimately received. The sale of the ship’s crude on the illicit market and the ransom would nicely compensate the pirates and fund al-Shabaab’s terrorist operations for many months to come. But the money was insignificant compared to what Bhutar made from timing its bets in the international marketplaces for black gold.
Vladimir was patiently awaiting the arrival of his master, Rashid Misfer Al-Hajiri, the number two official in Bhutar State Security, the country’s small intelligence and security service. He was his principle contact with the government and the guy who wrote the checks. He was also the person who laid out the broad, strategic goals for the entire enterprise, letting Vlad handle the logistical details, tactics and executions of the operations. Vlad thought he was a sleazy character, although he had no room to criticize given his own checkered past. Birds of a feather the Americans would no doubt say and Vlad chuckled at the thought. However, in his own demented mind, he’d been a steadfast patriot when he worked for the KGB and had the Order of Lenin medal to prove it. Now self employed, he was finally reaping the rewards he believed he richly deserved.
The café in Victoria, the small capital city of the Seychelles, was today’s meeting spot. He couldn’t have picked a better location for his base of operations and home for the past few months. An hour and a half flight could get him to either Kenya or Somalia in an emergency requiring his presence. Bhutar was a three hour journey, although he’d never been there and hoped he’d never have to visit the miserable sandbox.
The string of tropical islands in the Indian Ocean was stunning in their physical beauty and had become a popular tourist destination for Europeans escaping the winter doldrums. He particularly enjoyed driving the road around the coast of Mahe, the main island, with its secluded coves, beaches and pristine waters. From the road, the land rose to the mountain peaks covered with lush, verdant vegetation. The backdrop and scenery was picture perfect. He thought the Seychelles were a tropical paradise and an ideal home for his operation. The openness and friendliness of the Seychellois, coupled with the lack of scrutiny by the local authorities, added to its charm.
His leased bungalow was a short drive to Victoria in his Mini Moke, a beach buggy and popular mode of transportation on the island. The pace of life was languid and he was always intrigued by the different ethnicities that comprised the population. East Africans, Indians and a smattering of Europeans, mainly French, had intermarried over many years creating a wide range of blends and hues of skin coloration. The official languages of the Seychelles; Seychellois Creole, English and French, added to the harmonious cultural and linguistic mixture among the populace. They reflected the country’s long history of occupation by the French and later the British. It was a mishmash of languages that everyone born and raised in the Seychelles understood. Vladimir was so taken with the island and its people he was seriously considering retiring here after his work was done and his bank account overflowed. And achieving that twin goal was getting closer by the day.
Rashid arrived late as usual for the meeting. Vlad thought he was arrogant prick who had the distinct smell of superiority about him. Of course, Vlad had no choice in the matter now that he was an entrepreneur and freelancer for the highest bidder. Rashid took a seat across from him at the small table in the back of the cafe. They were out of earshot of the other patrons who might have inquiring ears and an overly curious interest in their conversation.
“So what are you calling yourself these days?” Rashid asked.
“Vladimir is fine with me,” he replied, not disclosing his current cover name. The little Rashid knew about his current circumstances the better for his safety, Vlad thought. He didn’t trust the Bhutari or his government in the slightest.
“Well, my friend, you’ve done well over the past few months in our campaign. The Liberty Bay hijacking was flawless and its timing perfect. We made huge profits on the incident. By the way, your numbered bank account was rewarded accordingly.”
Vlad bridled at the word friend, but stayed quiet. There was no way this greasy camel jockey would ever be his friend; employer yes, friend no. Truthfully, he had no friends, only enemies!
Rashid pushed a large envelope across the table and Vlad knew what was inside: bribe and expense money to grease the wheels of the enterprise. All large payments to Al-Qaeda and the ISIS leadership for their services were made via sophisticated, clandestine wire transfers. But this money was for Vlad to use for exigencies requiring immediate payoffs to government officials and others to facilitate the terrorist actions. It was merely pin money for petite bribes.
“So, Vladimir, my bosses are ready to up the ante so to speak. Your attacks on the oil distribution system should continue apace, but we have something spectacular in mind that will cripple a major producer’s main oil terminus and port for months, possibly longer given the amount of damage we can inflict. That will ensure Bhutar will continue to profit at others expense.”
The coconspirators discussed the plan for the next hour. The target was identified and the means of carrying out the attack discussed in detail. Vlad admitted to himself that it was an audacious plan and, if fully successfully executed, would wreak havoc on the country and the price of crude oil would skyrocket to record levels overnight. It was a solid plan and he liked it. He also liked the enormous fee he’d earn for making it happen on behalf of his Bhutari masters. Vlad might be retiring earlier than he expected and held onto the pleasant thought. Operation Scorched Earth was about to begin!