Callie’S Ghost

By James Christian

An offer given and a favor owed lead the reader on an international plot set in Morocco. The fast moving and compelling intrigue of this novel leads one to consider how money is moving around the globe sponsoring terrorists, just as in the bombing of the American Mission in Rabat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504981965

James Christian

James Christian (1934 – 2015) knew from an early age that he wanted to be an author. After completing his academic work (BA, MA, and PhD at the University of Texas) he worked for 20 years internationally and was a full professor at several universities. He published many professional papers during his career, and upon retirement wrote two hardbacks [The Courier and A Long Walk with Jesus] and 3 e-books on Amazon [Audrey’s Bonds, An Armenian Affair, and Lost and Found]. This was his final book, and was completed shortly before his death in 2015.

Book preview

ONE

It was a day bursting with promise. Vivid yellow daffodils had lifted the gray cloud of winter, the sun was bright and the sweet scent of spring was in the air. Ben hadn’t felt so alive in months. Liberated at last, he was going through the practiced motions of a last day in the office before a trip. And not just any trip. The Memorandum of Understanding, the MOU, that would green light the project he’d been working on before his heart attack was ready for the final, delicate touches. Somebody else could have gone—ultimately, no one was indispensable—but it was his baby. The design was his and nobody understood how it worked better than he did. Unquestionably, nobody was as passionate about it. Properly implemented, it would become the pattern for low income microfinance in the Third World. He’d be proud to have that carved on his tombstone.

Then Adrian Northcutt called. Not to wish him good luck or bon voyage, but to invite him to lunch. Yeah, right.

—————

Northcutt was slouched on a bench in Lafayette Square, leaning forward a little, elbows on his knees. The ever-present clutches of protestors holding their makeshift signs were more subdued than usual, almost as if the languor of spring had soothed their grievances. Northcutt wasn’t paying any attention to them. He was staring at the White House across the street.

Ben Chapman approached from the north end of the Square, having walked from the Farragut Square Metro station. He saw Northcutt before Northcutt saw him and noticed several things about the setup for the meeting. First, Northcutt was early. Most unusual. Second, he wasn’t hiding out in an obscure corner of the Square. Also unusual. He preferred the shadows, so there had to be a reason. The best guess was that he wanted Ben to have to look at the White House and be impressed by the gravitas of whatever it was Northcutt was going to pitch to him. That was ominous. Third, a pair of brown bags rested on the bench, a grease stain spreading out from the bottom of one of them. Hot dogs. Northcutt’s idea of treating for lunch.

In days gone by, hot dogs wouldn’t have bothered Ben. A cast iron stomach had served him well over twenty-odd years of travelling the Third World. But after triple bypass surgery, six months of rehab and a fistful of pills every morning, street food, even American street food, was off limits.

Finally, Ben noticed the pilot’s case—one of those squared-off jobs that hold a lot of stuff. It was tucked under the bench beside Northcutt’s left leg.

You’re late, Chappie, he said, holding out the brown bag with the grease stain in one hand and offering a can of Coke with the other. Got you a Coke. That OK?

I wanted lamb chops and a good bottle of Pinot Noir.

Sorry, he said. Carry Out at Maison Blanche was closed.

Uh huh, Ben mumbled, cautiously opening the brown bag and extracting a foil-wrapped hot dog. No relish?

Eat it or it’ll get cold, Northcutt said. I don’t have a lot of time. Northcutt took a large bite of his hot dog and chewed vigorously. Two more bites and he’d be finished.

Ben took one look at the swollen tube of meat lying in its white-bread blanket, wrapped the aluminum foil back around it and set it down beside Northcutt. He’d get something later that wouldn’t require a Mylanta chaser. Adrian could eat it or leave it for one of the homeless people who hung out in the Square. The Coke was OK, though. He popped the top and took a sip.

Adrian wiped a dab of mustard from his mouth with a flimsy paper napkin, shredding it in the process. So, he said. How’re you feeling? What do your docs say?

I’m on a short leash, Ben said.

And Morocco’s the end of your tether, huh?

It didn’t deserve a question, but Ben asked it anyway. How is it you know I’m going to Morocco?

I’m in intelligence, remember? It’s what I do. And Morocco is perfect. Won’t take you a bit out of your way.

Another small favor for Adrian. Ben had done a dozen or more of them over the years. Take a package somewhere, pick up something and bring it home, brush pass a message or a one-time pad. Although he didn’t want Adrian to know it, he would never turn him down, for at least two reasons. First, Ben owed Adrian his life, quite literally. Second, Adrian still manned the barricades, as he had done all his adult life, from Special Forces in Viet Nam to DIA in the Pentagon and now on the National Security Council working out of the White House, doing something with terrorism. Ben preferred the peaceful approach to patriotism, but he wasn’t naïve. Adrian’s work was necessary and Ben was honored to help when he could.

Northcutt finished his hot dog, wadded up the napkin and the foil, looked at the hot dog Ben had set aside.

You don’t want this?

Can’t, Ben said. Doctor’s orders. You go ahead.

Northcutt stripped away the aluminum foil and, one cheek bulging, said, I didn’t come empty-handed, Chappie. I can make a few calls, make sure you they give you a sole source on the implementation contract. That’s what you want, isn’t it?

I’m not killing anybody for you, Adrian. Ben said it with a straight face, but his body language must have told Northcutt that short of a new heart, there wasn’t anything Ben coveted more than the implementation contract. Northcutt had him square in the headlights, lined up with the hood ornament. Road kill.

‘Sole Source’ is the magic phrase every government contractor longs to hear. No waiting weeks and months for the Request for Proposal, no scrambling to meet an unrealistic deadline for submitting a bid, followed by another long wait to provide best and final offers. Ultimately, if you were lucky, if you hadn’t been out-hustled by some low-bid bozo who’d file for an amended budget within six months of signing, you might get the award. Sole source cut through all that bull shit.

Northcutt read Ben’s eyes and grinned. Easy enough. Couple of phone calls ought to do it. He paused to chew, swallowed and let the silence hang there.

He belched and took a long swig of Coke before going on. "Here’s what I need. I’m up to my eyeballs tracking funding for terrorist groups. There’s a new conduit in Morocco. Money’s been trickling into the account of a sleeper we’ve been watching for awhile. Probably al Queda. This guy has no business with a couple hundred thousand bucks—he’s a frigging auto mechanic. You’d think they’d be smarter about things like that. Northcutt snorted and shook his head. We don’t think the target is Morocco. We think the money’s on its way somewhere else. Probably Europe, but we aren’t ruling out something here in the US."

You’re babbling, Adrian. Ben said.

"Bear with me, Chappie. We’ve got an asset in the Banque Populaire who’s babysitting this account. The money could move any time. If and when it does, Ali—that’s our guy’s code name—is supposed to get us the wire addresses of the destination accounts. With the account numbers, we can keep tracking the money until we find the rabbit hole where their foot soldiers are hiding out. We don’t want to lose the money trail in some damned hawala where we won’t see it again until it’s turned into a bomb."

What makes you think they’re going to wire transfer the money? Ben asked. Half a dozen of them could just split it up and hand-carry it.

Northcutt shook his head. Maybe, but wire gets where it’s going fast and the amounts will probably be small, so they don’t think anybody’ll notice. Anyway, we don’t have the manpower to track a bunch of cash couriers. But that’s not the problem. I’ve been running Ali with a junior consular officer. Tradecraft isn’t this kid’s strong suit and Ali’s afraid his cover is blown. The last message he left in the dead drop was that he wasn’t going to use the dead drop anymore.

The dead drop’s dead, Ben said.

Not funny, Chappie. Ali’s going to break contact unless I get a new face for him. You’re ideal. Perfect reason to be in-country. Quick in and out. One shot deal with Ali. If the money moves, he wants to pass the destination account numbers to Mr. Fresh Face. That’s you.

So how’s this going to work? Ben asked.

Ali’s going to photograph the data with a little camera I’m going to give you. It has a chip in it that stores the pics. You sit the camera on a docking station, plug it into your laptop, and zap the shots to me over the Internet. No need to put on a cloak or draw your dagger. Sit in your hotel room in your skivvies and push a couple of buttons. It’s not rocket science. I’ll have the information almost as fast as the money moves over the wire.

Northcutt leaned forward so their heads were only inches apart. Rapid fire, he gave Ben the rendezvous points—Café Tripoli to hand over the camera, a bookstore down the street to get it back and pay Ali. Recognition marker—Ken Follett’s Lie Down With Lions—and the magic words Ali would speak to Ben and what Ben would reply.

I don’t like having to make contact twice, Ben said. If Ali’s cover’s been blown, they’ll be watching him. One pass with me is OK. But if I show up a second time … whoever’s watching will know I’m his contact.

Northcutt shrugged. It’s a risk. Not a big one.

And you’ve got me sitting in the same place for who knows how long. . . until Ali shows up? I haven’t been to the Farm, but different rendezvous points and a couple of brush passes would seem to me to be the way to do this.

Ali’s not a pro and he doesn’t know you. Can’t brush pass. Look, the new boys and girls in the WH aren’t paying attention to terrorism. They’re still obsessed with the freaking Soviets and poison gas and nuclear weapons in Iraq. My team’s getting benched. We’re just trying to make do with what we’ve got and we may not have that for long.

Northcutt was getting irritated. Ben was asking too many questions and making the operation sound like something cobbled together by amateurs.

What if the wire transfers go out in the morning? What if they stagger them? One one day, two the next and so on. You don’t have me at the rendezvous until six o’clock. You’ll lose a whole day and there’s a chance your info will be hit and miss.

Ali can delay the wires. No matter when the transfers are requested, the wires won’t be sent until the bank closes. Actually, we’ll have all night before the money is live again at its destination. If they stagger the wires … well, let’s not give them too much credit for smarts. They’re pretty stupid actually. I’ve already told you they were sending large chunks of money to an auto mechanic.

Ben sighed, suspicious of the set up. And that’s it? Ben asked. I’m not going to get page two of the agenda once I’m out there, am I?

Absolutely not. Scout’s honor. That’s it.

And you’ll ice the implementation contract, even if Ali doesn’t show up while I’m out there?

Well, Northcutt said, starting to waffle. You haven’t cleared the Memorandum of Understanding. Without a signed and sealed MOU, there won’t be a project, right? Besides, this is just a contingency. If the money doesn’t move, you won’t have done anything for me. You’ll come home and I’ll have to find somebody else to support Ali. I’ll deliver your contract when and if you deliver the wire transfer addresses. A favor for a favor. That’s fair, don’t you think?

Ben stared at him, disappointed, then shrugged. What the hell, he thought. He had good cover, there was no risk if Ali didn’t show and a big contract—one he really wanted—if everything fell into place.

Northcutt nudged the pilot’s case against Ben’s leg. "This has all the stuff you’ll need. Copy of the book. The camera’s in the cigarette lighter. Ali knows how to work it. For you, there’s an instruction manual. Don’t lose the lighter. It’s a James Bond thing. Cost the taxpayers a bundle. I’ve set up an internet account with a local ISP. Check it as soon as you get there to make sure it works. There are fifty Benjamins in the case. That’s Ali’s payday. Bring them back if he doesn’t show. I have to account for the money. One more thing. I changed your hotel reservation. You’re at the Soundouss out in Agdal. I know you like the Meridien, but the Soundouss is right across the street from the Café Tripoli, two blocks away from the bookstore. And the branch of Banque Populaire where Ali works is in between. Perfect. He looked at his watch. Gotta go. He stood up, crumpled his brown bag into a ball and tossed it to Ben. Call me when you get back. Your turn to buy lunch."

TWO

Once upon a time, the building that housed the USAID Mission in Rabat was a comfortable, but unpretentious mansion, its grounds and outbuildings surrounded by the customary wall which supported cascades of purple bougainvillea. In the garden where AID staffers took coffee breaks and ate lunch al fresco, a line of lacy green cypress trees offered shade and formed a second line of defense behind the wall.

Security was Moroccan army and precious little of it. A single trooper in baggy camouflage and a black beret stood on the sidewalk at parade rest with an old M1 that was probably unloaded. One gatekeeper behind bulletproof glass manned the entrance to the Mission and another managed the gates that gave access to the parking lot.

In short, the security sucked. Not the same way it did at Khobar barracks in Saudi Arabia or the embassies in Kenya and Tanzania, but the AID mission in Rabat was a very ‘soft’ target all the same. Any determined terrorist could crash the gates of the car park with a load of explosives and make a statement. For that matter, they could stand at the bus stop across the street and lob hand grenades into the very garden where Ben was drinking canteen coffee with Stanley Goldman, the capital development officer. AID in Morocco was phasing out and Ben’s project would probably be the last one through the pipeline.

They’d been talking about the phase down and Ben’s project having to be handled from Cairo when Ed Hanover came out of the side door and marched down the steps.

Sorry I didn’t have time for you yesterday, Ed said to Ben as he crossed the lawn with long strides. Sit down, Stanley, he told Goldman, who had risen, but not quite come to attention, with the approach of the Mission Director.

Ed dropped his large frame into a lawn chair and leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. Are you settled? he asked Ben.

Yeah. I’m at the Soundouss.

It’s not the Meridien but it’s convenient, Ed said. Saves you the downtown traffic. But you might have been better off at the Hilton. What’s on your agenda?

Ben shook his head. Just standing by right now, waiting on the Ministry of Finance to endorse the MOU and take it to the Council of Ministers—or not. There’s no need to do anything until somebody objects to something. If nothing breaks, I’m going to run up to Fez on Saturday.

Umm, Hanover said. I’ve asked for a sit down with the Minister. He knows you’re here. But nothing back yet. What’re you doing Sunday? Maggie and I want to have you over. Just kick back time. Have a swim. No pool at the Soundouss, right?

No pool. Flowers in the hall, oranges in the room, food’s OK. Great little bar and a fantastic sea breeze off the Atlantic in my room. But no pool and a pretty boring neighborhood. A swim will be nice and it’ll be good to see Maggie.

Ed unclasped his hands and rested them on the arms of the chair, preparing to push off. Well, gotta go, Ed said. The Inspector General’s in town making my life miserable. I’m taking him to the airport. I want to personally make sure the sumbitch gets on the plane.

Stanley and Ben grinned. To Ben, he said, Have you been to Volubilis? Be a good side trip on your way up to Fez.

I was planning on that. It’s an old Roman city, isn’t it?

Best mosaics you’ll see anywhere. Too bad they tore down most of the buildings to get the stone for Moulay Idriss. But that’s the way it goes—one civilization gives way to the next.

Ben had a hamburger out of the canteen at the Mission, bought a couple of Snickers, then hailed a cab and went back to the Hotel. He’d shower, stretch out on the bed with the sea breeze wafting through the tall windows and read awhile, maybe take a nap to patch up the jet lag. Later, he’d, have a beer in the bar and then drift over to the Café Tripoli. Maybe Ali would show up.

But he didn’t.

Not that day or the day after or the day after that. Nor did the Minister of Finance call to ask for a briefing on the project. So