The Awkward Arabesque
Chapter 27
Sven Jensen was the only name we had to work with and we beat the bushes looking for him. Vlad may have changed identities, but he’d have a hard time altering his face, beard or no beard. Ironically, we’d be bearding our foe as well. I liked the synchronicity of the wordplay, although worried about close shaves we might face trying to catch him. Neither Pet nor I wanted to lose any in our pursuit of the bastard.
With the help of the U.S. embassy’s security office, hundreds of leaflets with his likeness were handed to the Saudi cops with a polite request to distribute them throughout the kingdom.
So, what was Sven, a.k.a. Vlad, doing in Saudi Arabia we wondered? The answer was pretty obvious. He was up to his old, dirty tricks which had something to do with the disruption of oil supplies: at least that much was clear, but little else. What was his target this time? What to do next was the tough part of our dilemma and we didn’t have the foggiest notion as to how to move the needle forward on our investigation. That was until Pet had an idea and I thought it a good one. Vasily was the answer. The son could bring Vlad out of hiding through a little misinformation and a devious, slight-of-hand job.
Pet and I had been killing time in the lobby of the Riyadh Hilton over the past few days trying to figure out what to do next. It was doubly difficult since the country was dry, both in terms of climate and alcohol. Pet had to wear a demure black dress that went down to her ankles as well as a dark headscarf for modesty. I teased her to no end and said she’d never make the cover of Vogue.
“Pet you look plain and that would be a compliment if you were Amish,” I mentioned to smooth any feathers I might have ruffled.
“Me be proud rooshian wooman and no a-mash, you foolish person,” she joked using her best, heavily accented Natasha voice. I laughed at her shtick.
As we sat there twiddling our thumbs, literally at times, Al Jazeera interrupted its regular news coverage with a breaking story.
A massive explosion and fire had rocked a sea port in Luanda, Angola. Initial reports indicated 18 people had died and many more injured in the blast. At least three people were missing and presumed dead. The damage was said to be extensive, damaging not only berthed ships, but demolishing warehouses at the waterfront as well. One ship, the Alhambra, had sunk at dockside and was badly listing to one side and spewing crude oil into the ocean. Clouds of black smoke from oil fires now blanketed the capital. The photographs and videos of the scene looked grim. The country’s president called the event a brazen, inhumane terrorist attack and demanded the perpetrators be brought to justice.
Pet and I turned to each other and didn’t say a word. We didn’t have to speak about what we already knew: Vlad again! Damn it, we couldn’t catch a break, even for trying.
We concocted a story to be sent by Vasily to his father. It might just work and bring Vlad out from wherever he was currently hiding. Then again, it might just drive him further underground. We had to take a chance since we weren’t going anywhere fast: maybe half-fast, but not quickly by any means.
The premise of the tall tale would revolve around the close relations between Russia and Iran and the even closer relations between Iran and Bhutar. The Iran connection would be pivotal to its plausibility and Vlad swallowing the story whole. Vasily would say that Iran now wanted a piece of the action and profit the same as its Bhutari neighbor and that meant being cut-in on the timing of the terrorist actions. Iran was a large oil producer in its own right and wanted to game the system to its own advantage. Bhutar would be on the spot with its close ally and friend if it didn’t comply with the request. Vasily would say he had learned of the proposal through the SVR’s liaison with their Iranian counterparts, the Ministry of Intelligence and Security in Tehran. Now the Iranians insisted on meeting the person responsible for directing the terrorist assaults. That means you father dearest!
Pet went to her embassy in Riyadh and called her boss via secure voice and outlined the plan. I thought it had merit and might sell. More importantly, it was the only thing we could think of to find Vlad. We were stumped otherwise. Maybe confused, perplexed, confounded and baffled would fit nicely with our situation too. Or go for the most obvious description of our predicament. We were simply shit out of luck and ideas!