“Thank you, sir,” Jason said, “although it’s never been fully explained to me how you as a civilian managed to get them.”
“I’d like the opportunity to explain it to you, Colonel,” Patrick said. “Perhaps we’ll have a chance to work together in the very near future.”
“Apparently we already have been, except I didn’t know it,” Jason said. “Exactly what is it you do, sir?”
“Oh…a little bit of this, a little bit of that,” Patrick said. “I help out when and where I’m needed.” And Patrick hung up.
SOCOTRA AIRPORT, SOCOTRA ISLAND, REPUBLIC OF YEMEN
DAYS LATER
The Yemeni customs inspection official looked surprised and more than a little indignant as the tall, beefy, white-skinned man carried an enormous blue-and-white nylon bag, a briefcase, and a backpack over to his inspection station. Although this Felix Air flight had originated in the Yemeni capital of Sana’a, visitors to Socotra Island, an oval-shaped, rocky island two hundred miles east of Somalia in the Indian Ocean, were required to have their bags and travel documents reinspected. “Salam alaykum,” he said in his rough, low voice reserved for European visitors, holding out his hand. “Jawaz as-safar, min fadlak.”
The big man fished out travel documents from his backpack and handed them over. The customs officer was pleased to see the man wore a long-sleeved shirt and long pants-they were not as strict about Muslim clothing customs on Socotra Island because it depended so much on tourism, and shorts and short-sleeved shirts were allowed near the water and on hotel properties, but in public, even men and especially women had to cover their heads and bodies. He expected courtesy and respect for Muslim customs from every visitor-at least until they got to the hotel and beaches, where he enjoyed watching scantily clad Western, Asian, and African women just as much as the next guy.
“Wa alaykum as-salam,” the man said in extremely clumsy and heavily American-accented Arabic. He was tall, with closely cropped blond hair, blue eyes, and a light complexion. Socotra was a remote but popular destination for European tourists, so the customs agent played his favorite game and tried to guess the man’s nationality-German or Scandinavian descent, he figured, although the accent was definitely American, maybe Canadian. At least he gave Arabic a try, the customs officer thought.
“I speak English,” the agent said with a slight thank-you bow for giving his language a try. The passport was American. He had flown to Yemen aboard Emirates Airlines via London and Dubai; the tags on his backpack and large duffel bag verified all the previous destinations. “I am required to inspect your bags, Mr… Wayne Coulter,” he said.
“They told me you might have to do that,” the man named Coulter said.
“It is required.” His documents were all in order, with a visa procured in Washington -getting three-month tourist visas at Yemeni airports was not always reliable, especially with the current hostilities. Flipping through his passport, he found a folded twenty-dollar bill stuck inside. The customs officer locked eyes with the man, then held out the open passport. “That is not necessary here,” he said disapprovingly.
“Sorry,” the man named Coulter said, although he certainly didn’t sound apologetic. He took the bill and stuffed it into his pocket. “I don’t know how that got there.”
“Of course.” The passport was a couple years old, a few trips to Europe and Asia-this was his first trip to the Middle East. “Your occupation, sir?”
“Mechanical engineer. I design industrial robots, you know, to build cars, trucks, things like that. I’m demonstrating a robot to help fishermen.”
“I see.” If this man was an engineer, the agent thought, the sun would certainly set in the east tonight. He was definitely military. Everything looked in order, but he still did a couple of suspicious double takes at the photograph and a few of the pages to see if the man would react. He did not-a very cool customer indeed, he thought, a man trained and experienced in keeping cool. “How has your travel been, sir?”
“Fine,” the man said. “I had to sleep in the airport last night. They canceled a couple flights because of the Chinese and Russians in Aden and because of the weather.”
“I am sorry you were inconvenienced. The monsoons have come early this year, and of course the trouble with the Chinese…ma sha’ Allah. God’s will be done.”
“I hope I can still get some diving in.”
“I think so.” He flipped through the passport. “May I ask the purpose of your visit, please?”
“Demonstrating a machine for the Yemeni Fish Company Limited,” Macomber said. “I want to do some diving, too. I’m told it’s like the Great Barrier Reef of the Indian Ocean.”
“God has indeed blessed our island with great beauty, especially under the sea,” the customs officer said idly. He kept the documents in front of him on his desk as he unzipped the big duffel bag. It appeared to contain a gray scuba diver’s wet suit, weight belt with weights, gloves, and boots. “Such thick wet suits for the Indian Ocean? I am afraid you may be most uncomfortable in our warm waters.”
“I did some diving in the Irish Sea before coming here, demonstrating my technology,” Coulter said. “This equipment allows me to dive deeper and stay underwater longer.”
“I see.” The customs officer knew the equipment had come from the United States via London, so the Irish Sea story could have been real, but his interest was piqued-these were not typical visitor’s scuba equipment. The last item was even more curious-it looked like a cross between a full-face motorcycle helmet and a deep-sea diver’s helmet. “And this is?”
“My diving helmet.”
“It is very unusual. I have never seen one like it.”
“It’s the latest thing,” Coulter said. “I can wirelessly talk to other divers or to surface crews while underwater, and it gives me readouts of air supply, dive depth and duration, water temperature and current, and even gives my location.”
“Quite remarkable,” the customs officer said, examining the helmet closely. Inside it did seem to have rows of tiny light-emitting diodes aimed at the visor, as well as microphones and earphones. Despite the fact that all this had to have been already inspected and approved in Sana’a, he knew he had to report it to the National Security Organization, or NSO, Yemen’s foreign intelligence service-this equipment, as well as this man who claimed to be an engineer, had to be checked out further. He did declare all this equipment, so he was not trying to hide anything.
Still, the agent was getting more and more suspicious and decided to give this man several more minutes of attention, so he carefully and deliberately repacked the odd diving gear, then started to go through the man’s backpack, again being slow and deliberate. The backpack contained clothes and toiletries, including some cold-weather clothing, giving further credence to the Irish Sea story, plus spare battery packs and a pair of binoculars, all listed on the declaration form. The briefcase had a laptop computer, cellular phone, power adapters, more spare battery packs, a personal digital assistant, pens, and other typical businessman travel things-no pornography, alcohol, or prohibited items, everything properly declared. He checked his papers and found permission letters to use a house owned by the Yemeni Fish Company in Hadibo, along with vouchers for scuba trips and island tours, all arranged online fairly recently through a tourist agency in Sana’a from a hotel in London using an American credit card. All very touristlike.
He really didn’t have anything to detain him here legally, the customs agent thought, but he had to be reported. The officer had recently received some advanced training in how to spot foreign agents and insurgents, and this guy definitely looked like a fighter, not an engineer. “You are aware of the pirate trouble in the region lately?” the customs agent asked. “The Chinese navy has successfully suppressed much of the pirate activity to the south, but it is still active in the Gulf of Aden and northern Indian Ocean.”