The Imam of the Cave Read online

  The Chinese representative, Jaing Lo Wing, jumped up from his chair and slammed his fist on the table. “I protest this attempt by the United States to accuse the People’s Republic of China of attacking Afghanistan!” He was glaring at Rogers, whom he didn’t dislike on a professional level, but whose meticulous way of dressing made him seem effeminate to Wing.

  “Be so kind as to stay yourself for a few moments, Wing.” Rogers lifted his arm and motioned for the Chinese envoy to sit down. He stared impassively back for a couple of seconds at the man’s cantaloupe round face and two beady black eyes hidden behind a pair of gold framed glasses.

  “No one here is insinuating that your nation was on the brink of attacking Afghanistan. My purpose is to fix the place of the missiles relative to a narrative that I propose to elaborate for the benefit of all of you. Now hear me out.”

  “The second photo, taken forty-five minutes later on the same day, shows seven missiles arrayed and deployed on the border.” Rogers paused for effect.

  “What happened to the eighth, Wing? Kindly refrain from telling me it developed mechanical problems and returned to Ningteke.”

  Wing lifted his arms in the air. “You have the photos, you tell me where it went.”

  “To all of you I will relate what we know. The 1st Mountain Division was deprived of one of its transporters carrying a nuclear missile.”

  Wing had become visibly agitated.

  “Before you launch another protest pray allow me to finish. The military searched for three days but found not the slightest trace of their missing hardware. Our satellite recorded pictures of frantic maneuvers by the army which persuasively demonstrate that your military scoured the terrain for the missing missile, but without success.”

  He motioned to the photographs. “If you want to see them.”

  Wing raised and dropped his arms and shook his head no then took his seat.

  “It has also come to our attention,” Rogers continued, needling the Chinese representative, “that the division now enjoys a new commander. May it please you to accept our condolences on the…premature death of his predecessor.

  “If you’ll direct your attention to the last photo, you’ll see evidence that terrorists may have hijacked the transporter. It was recorded over the southern Afghanistan desert the night subsequent to the dispossession. It portrays a camouflaged vehicle large enough to be a missile transporter.”

  “Perhaps,” countered Wing, “you are correct in the assumption—but it’s merely an assumption! The Mujahedeen don’t have the ability to steal a nuclear missile under the noses of the Army of the People’s Republic of China.”

  “Can you corroborate that…supposition?” replied Rogers.

  The other envoys listened to Edward Rogers lay out the facts to Jaing Lo Wing and after viewing the photos they were convinced that China had lost a nuclear missile. Their own countries’ losses paled by comparison.

  Wing asked Rogers, “Where did the vehicle in this picture go?”

  “Its destination remains a mystery. Our satellite lost track of it somewhere in southern Iran.”

  “This is ridiculous,” exclaimed Igor Petrovich, the Russian envoy. “I don’t understand why you requested I be here. If it was to discuss how our Chinese neighbors cannot keep track of their missiles and how US satellites aren’t capable of tracking them, you’re wasting my time.”

  Igor’s right eye, green with flecks of gold, shifted its focus between Wing and Rogers. His darker left eye, made of glass to replace the one he had lost as a youth, kept a steady unseeing gaze to his front.

  Rogers reached into his briefcase and took out another set of photographs and laid them on the table. “Igor, I think you would be well advised to examine these.”

  The Russian representative extracted his rotund figure from his black leather chair and lumbered around the table. As he leaned over the photos, his toupee slipped a little, revealing his bald pate. He shifted his hair back, casually viewed the photos and handed them back to Rogers.

  “So, you have pictures of an Iranian boat. What is that to Russia? We have sold many boats to the Iranians.”

  “Not just any boat,” the American replied, “but the Samur River patrol craft that your country reported lost. If you’d be so kind as to contact your superiors, they might be able to confirm what has just been disclosed to you. When our thinking coincides as to what boat it is, we can deliberate the matter.”

  Disgruntled but taking the picture of the boat with him, the Russian marched toward the door.

  “Igor,” added Rogers, “the officially registered name of the boat in the picture is the Caucasus.”

  The remaining envoys began telling stories and recalling vague rumors that they had heard second and third hand. The British representative, Edmond Smithers, described an incident that had supposedly occurred in Cyprus, the former British colony.

  “My sister-in-law has a brother who’s a captain with the Australian forces serving with the UN peacekeeping force on Cyprus.”

  “They seem to have misplaced eight of their chaps and two Land Rovers. Margaret talked to Niles a few days ago. As I recall, she said that Niles had conveyed to her that the chaps and their Land Rovers had gone missing without a trace.”

  Because this event involved troops under UN jurisdiction, the others had heard the rumor, but they were only now considering that it might possibly not be an isolated incident.

  Igor Petrovich shuffled back into the room with a scowl on his face. He shrugged his beefy shoulders and set the picture on the table.

  “I was unaware of the missing boat. There was no reason for a lost patrol boat to be of any consequence to the military commanders in Moscow. However, now that they’ve been notified, the commander of the border station has many questions he’ll have to answer.” He had a sheepish look on his face. “Edward, what do you know?”

  “Igor, our satellite espied the Caucasus as she fled the Samur River and bore south in the Caspian Sea. The same as you, we suspected nothing at seeing a Russian boat flying an Iranian flag.

  “But two days later our interest swelled, when another of our satellites descried the same boat in Iraq flying an Iraqi flag. That was when analysis demonstrated that two and two didn’t compute and we deduced that something was wrong.

  The group continued to explore incidents and rumors until Rogers brought up the subject of the missing UNSCOM inspectors.

  All of the representatives were aware of the missing inspectors but didn’t consider those incidents to have any bearing on their own situations. They assumed that the inspectors were in the wrong place at the wrong time and met their fates at the hands of disgruntled Iraqis.

  Rogers asked, “When was the last inspector declared vanished?”

  When Rogers first brought up the subject Smithers had immediately made a phone call. Now he hung up and announced, “Derrick Willy—it was Derrick Willy.”

  Everyone’s eyes were on Edmond, anxiously waiting for him to finish what he was going to say.

  “The UNSCOM weapons inspector was Derrick Willy. And he vanished on the same day as the missile and the boat.”

  CHAPTER 4: RECONNAISSANCE FLIGHT

  HALF AN HOUR BEFORE SUNRISE on Saturday, the pilot of the SR-71 Black Bird stood on the brakes as he slowly pushed the throttles to full power, just short of engaging the afterburners. The RPMs reached the required level and the pilot released the brakes. When he selected afterburner, the aircraft rolled a few feet down the Edwards Air Force Base runway.

  In less than two seconds the Black Bird’s two J58 Pratt & Whitney engines produced 65,000 pounds of thrust, resulting in a fiery glow extending fifteen feet behind the tail of the jet. Off the ground, the Black Bird exceeded the maximum gear retraction airspeed of 300 knots so quickly that the pilot almost immediately retracted the landing gear.

  NASA had agreed to the current mission after the UN agreed to pay $250,000, plus the cost of the operation. NASA’s limited budget reduced the num
ber of flights they were able to mount and the UN’s offer gave them the opportunity to test some new gear.

  The Black Bird made its pass and photographed every square mile of the Syrian Desert before it reversed direction and headed back toward the Atlantic Ocean. A KC-135 tanker circled at the designated refueling point, waiting for the thirsty bird to arrive.

  * * *

  Back at Edwards Air Force Base, after the Black Bird’s titanium skin had cooled enough for its payload to be removed, the film was processed and analyzed by a team of NASA imagery experts. Those digital images revealing activity in the desert were uploaded to a satellite transceiver and forwarded by scrambled satellite transmission to Edward Rogers in New York.

  At 10 p.m. Rogers began reviewing each photo and its accompanying notes from the technicians. He sorted the images into three piles.

  In the first pile he stacked photos of things you would normally associate with the desert—various Bedouin camps and camel caravans.

  The second stack contained military images—a small airfield the Iraqis thought was hidden from the rest of the world, a company of Republican Guards on desert maneuvers and what appeared to be a draped transport entering a shelter.

  The third contained images that couldn’t be identified by the NASA image experts.

  Rogers worked until 3 a.m. but got no closer to deciphering the photographs’ secrets than had the NASA experts.

  He stuffed the last group of pictures into his briefcase and locked it in his safe, then extinguished the lights in his office and headed home for some much deserved sleep.

  * * *

  It was after 2 p.m. Sunday when Rogers returned to his office. He had slept poorly and been bothered by many strange dreams. When he checked in with his secretary, she reminded him that on his calendar was a late working lunch with Gloria Caruthers.

  Gloria worked with the UN Security Council Investigative Agency. The agency was responsible for internal UN security and for investigating complaints from member countries concerning threats to their peace and security.

  Gloria, a thirty-two year old British citizen from Wales, had received her early training from British Intelligence and believed that covert investigating was the best technique. When she had worked for MI6 as an agent, she was either respected for her abilities by the operatives she worked with or disliked intensely by those jealous of her entering what some still thought of as a man’s domain.

  Edward and Gloria’s different philosophies were infamous for causing small office wars at the UN. Their affair was also a battle zone—physical and very competitive. Their attraction to each other was a completely physical affair. When they slept together, it was as if two animals in heat had met for the first time.

  Gloria stood five feet, eight inches tall from her stockinged feet to the top of her head. The first thing almost anyone noticed when meeting her for the first time was her red hair and emerald green eyes, which appeared to sparkle when she laughed.

  As Edward passed through the entrance into the executive mess, he studied the people who were seated and mingling in the thirty by sixty foot room.

  He spotted Gloria at a window table surrounded by two junior bureaucrats from the British envoy’s office. They were having an animated exchange of words and something caused Gloria to laugh in the sexy way she often did whenever men were around. She reached over and touched the arm of the speaker, immediately causing his eyes to light up.

  Edward edged his way up to the table and looked sideways at the two clerks, who reluctantly excused themselves and left.

  “Ed, I was afraid I’d have to let those two young men buy me lunch,” Gloria said laughingly.

  She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I wasn’t sure if you’d remember our luncheon after working all night, but I gave the waiter our order on the outside chance you’d show.”

  He motioned for her to sit back down then took a seat opposite her. “Gloria, I wouldn’t miss our working luncheon for anything less than a full meeting of the Security Council.”

  Edward wasn’t surprised that she knew he had spent the night in his office—he figured that she probably even knew what he was doing. Gloria didn’t lack for informants at the UN, both official and social.

  “I noticed the clerks…” he said, his eyes falling to her low cut blouse and remaining there for a couple of seconds.

  She laughed. “Are you jealous or are you implying that my breasts are the best assets I have?”

  He realized that she was close to boxing him into saying something he preferred not to broach. “Neither.”

  The waiter arrived with their drinks…Baileys on ice for Gloria and a mineral water for Edward. “Your order will be ready in minute.”

  Rogers gave him a just bring the food stare then looked at Gloria.

  “Gloria, we have a situation,” he said sternly, seeming to lecture her like a schoolmaster a pupil, though the tone was intended more for self-discipline.

  “I know, darling—my apartment’s closer.” She pouted her lips and made her eyes rounder than usual.

  “I’m serious!” he protested then realized that she was putting him on.

  “Okay.” He raised both hands toward her in a gesture indicating stop. “Let us eat and then talk—I’m famished.”

  The waiter cleared the table then brought another Baileys on ice for Gloria and another mineral water for Edward.

  Gloria lit a cigarette, which was another thing that irritated him to no end. But since it was Gloria who was smoking, he overlooked it, as he overlooked her calling him ‘Ed.’

  “Thank you for lunch.” Gloria blew a stream of smoke above his head. “Did you want to compare notes on the missing people and equipment?”

  Edward shifted his gaze around the room to see who might be within hearing distance. “What do you know about this?”

  When he made eye contact with her after hearing her last comment, Gloria continued, “My office has been aware of various unexplained activities taking place over the last three months, but there seemed to be no connections—at least up to now.”

  “Why now?”

  Gloria’s response was immediate. “We sent one of our investigators to Baghdad to work with UNSCOM a little over three weeks ago, when they reported the disappearance of a third one of their inspectors.

  “We suspected that Saddam Hussein was responsible for their kidnapping, but our operative was able to unearth neither a trace of the missing men nor any indications of foul play.

  “He notified us when another inspector vanished. He didn’t update us about Derrick Willy, however, because he himself went missing the same day.”

  Edward was thoughtful. “Derrick Willy was the fifth UNSCOM inspector to vanish.”

  Gloria glanced at her watch and jumped up. “I really must be going. I have a meeting at five. Call me later.”

  * * *

  That evening Edward called Gloria’s apartment, but got the telephone answering machine. He tried her mobile phone.

  On the third ring she answered. “Gloria Caruthers.”

  “Hi, Gloria. Edward.”

  “Ed, where are you?”

  “At home. I thought we could get together here for a late snack or a drink.”

  “That sounds wonderful, but I have a few errands to run. Will eleven be too late for me to stop by?”

  “No, of course not. I’ll be here.”

  “Ask the doorman to let me use the private elevator. I’ll see you later.”

  Gloria put the phone back into her purse and returned to her session with Conchita, a Honduran emigrant who cleaned offices at the UN. Lighting a cigarette, she asked, “What do you have for me?”

  With a nervousness that made her accent more pronounced, Conchita’s brief story rushed out.

  “I clean Mr. Edward’s office. His office is always neat and is easy to clean it. Like I tell you on the phone, he never leaves things out that he don’t want to throw away…”

  “As you said,
he never leaves things lying about that he doesn’t want thrown away. As his friends, you and I can make sure Mr. Edward doesn’t have any trouble if he forgot to put something away.”

  Conchita removed a square manila envelope from a shopping bag and handed it to Gloria, who slid it into a leather briefcase.

  Gloria slid fifty dollars across the table. “It’s late. I want you to take a taxi home.”

  Conchita examined the money with big eyes. “I cannot take your money, Miss Gloria!”

  “It’s okay. I’m sure that if Mr. Edward knew, he would want you to have the money for being helpful. And think how proud he is…I think it’s better that we keep this between ourselves and not tell him. Mr. Edward would be embarrassed and we don’t want that, do we?”

  “No, Miss Gloria.”

  * * *

  She let herself into his apartment with the key he’d given her after their third date—or one night stand, as she referred to them. It was his subtle way of saying that he would like the arrangement to be a little more permanent without verbally having to commit to a relationship.

  She padded into the living room and found Rogers draped across his mahogany and damask Duncan Phyfe sofa, with a crystal glass overturned on the tousled Persian carpet. He had gleefully pointed out to her, after purchasing it at an auction, that it was a Kashani silk carpet with a Shah Abbassi Medallion design.

  Standing above him, she heard a deep, steady breathing and realized he’d simply fallen asleep. It would take total exhaustion for Ed to fall asleep without putting his pajamas on.

  Knowing he wouldn’t forgive her if she let him sleep, she bent over and nibbled on his ear until he awoke.

  “What?” exclaimed Edward, raising his head up. “Gloria! When did you get here? What time is it?”

  He sat up and wiped Gloria’s saliva off his ear.

  “Slow down! Everything’s okay, Ed. It’s a quarter past eleven and I just arrived.”

  Gloria set her briefcase on the white marble top of the mahogany coffee table and removed her coat. “Shall I fix you a drink, darling?”