“What are you doing here, boss?” Moncrief finally turned toward Parker.
“I need your help.”
Moncrief stopped, laid the roller on top of the screen on the bucket of paint, wiped the paint off his hands, pulled back the Yankees hat, checked it again to make sure that not a drop of paint was on it, put it back with a tilt on his head, pulled out a wrapped, short stub of a Gloria Cubana cigar, unwrapped it, stuck it in the corner of his smiling mouth, and said, “Let’s get out of this overpriced dollhouse.”
The lake was still recuperating from the nearly decade-long drought. The bleached rocks and raw, exposed shoreline showed the drought’s success. But really, two thieves were involved in the crime. Mother Nature took what water it could, and the growing city of Atlanta used the rest. At last, in recent months, the rains had returned.
“They’re hoping that by the time they move in, it will still be a lake house.” Moncrief smiled as he spoke and pointed out over the lake, making reference to the receding waterline. They pulled up two chairs. “How’s the shoulder?”
“Fine. Do you still have a contact in DIA?” Parker asked. The Defense Intelligence Agency had been a good source for Moncrief for years.
“Yes, I actually do.”
Parker nodded. It wouldn’t have surprised him to learn that Kevin Moncrief took a break from painting every so often to help out his friends from the past.
“I need to find out everything I can on Operation Intekam.”
“I’ve heard of that.” Moncrief pulled out his cigar and absentmindedly smelled it as he spoke. He looked up and for a moment stared at Parker. “It was the Iranian operation after the Vincennes shot down the Iranian passenger jet. Some thought it was linked to the Pan Am flight.”
“Exactly. Intekam is Farsi for ‘an equal and just revenge.’ They lost two hundred and ninety innocent people, and they were determined to get an eye for an eye.” Parker knew that the USS Vincennes had given Iran Air Flight 655 no chance, misreading the commercial aircraft as an inbound fighter. The SM-2MR surface-to-air missile tore through the Airbus 300, ripping the wings from the airplane. At that altitude, death was instantaneous.
“I need to know if a man named Yousef al-Qadi is connected to Intekam and, more importantly, whether Intekam is connected to Lockerbie.”
Moncrief smiled and took out a pad of paper and pen to write the name. “Do I smell a mission coming on?”
“Perhaps.”
“I’m in.” The gunny looked like a kid on Christmas Eve.
“There is something else I need to know,” Parker said. “What was the CIA’s connection to all of this?”
Moncrief raised his eyebrows. “You think the big boys were in on that?”
“I’m not sure. Something doesn’t feel right. How quickly can you find out about this?”
“How much time do we have?”
“A matter of days, maybe less.”
“I always work well under pressure.” Moncrief took out his cigar and smiled his best broad, toothy smile. “We’ll use our backdoor e-mail.”
No sooner had Parker landed back at the lodge than his computer showed an e-mail from Moncrief. They had a special scramble program that Moncrief had lifted from his friends in the IDF. He’d modified the program to use words from the Apache language as keys. It could be broken, like all crypto programs, but it would take some very big computers working on it for several days and by then the operation would be over.
When will you be available? The e-mail came from “Quo-Qui,” a name that Moncrief used often.
Anytime, Parker shot back. Did you find out anything?
Mossad has someone in western Europe who confirms that the Semtex used on 103 was a part of a shipment bought with monies raised by a certain financial whiz kid trained at Harvard.
Parker stared at the lines of text for some time. That one line made up his mind. Parker was now in on this mission. It didn’t matter if the CIA were lying.
How about Intekam?
Yes, that too. Can you do a VTC in the morning?
Yes.
Good. 0600 will be noon in Paris.
CHAPTER 9
Parker checked the computer at 5:58 A.M. Two more minutes until Moncrief contacted him. If there was one thing he knew about the gunnery sergeant, it was that he’d never be late.
Bing. The computer chimed at exactly 6:00 A.M.
Two faces came in on a split screen. One was Moncrief. The other was a man, seemingly in his mid-fifties, wearing modern, stainless metal glasses with small rectangular lenses. He wore a wool turtleneck that was black and in sharp contrast to his milky-white complexion. If Parker had to guess, he would imagine the man was sitting behind his computer in a flat somewhere on the outskirts of Paris.
“This is my friend Ludwig.” Moncrief had seemingly the same cigar in his mouth from the day before. Parker suppressed a chuckle. Only Moncrief would be chewing on a cigar at six in the morning. “We served together when I was attached to the IDF several years ago.”
“Hello.”
“I understand from my friend Moncrief that you have an interest in Yousef al-Qadi.” The man on the split screen spoke English with a Dutch accent.
“Yes, indeed. What can you tell me?”
“Several years ago we intercepted a telephone call between Mohtashemi-Pur and an unknown person.”
“I know that name. But I can’t place it.” Parker said.
“Mohtashemi-Pur was the interior minister in Tehran. He was talking to this unknown person about the transfer of some eleven million dollars to an Ahmed Jibril.” Ludwig spoke in a clear, methodical voice without referring to any documents. It struck Parker that Ludwig must be a very good spy. A good spy always knew the details — and how to present them.
“I know that name as well. Ahmed Jibril.” Parker had attended the trial of the Lockerbie conspirators. The evidence included several intelligence reports.
“Yes, the head of the PFLP-GC. The Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine.”
“Can you connect the dots for me?”
“Yes. After the transfer of the funds, the Libyan PFLP-GC purchased some seven hundred pounds of Semtex from a corporation named Omnipol. It was the same Semtex that was in the Toshiba radio that brought down Pan Am Flight 103.”
“I see.” Parker leaned forward in his chair. His body became tense as he heard the words being spoken.
“Also, Ali Muhammad al-Megrahi was a member of the PFLP-GC.”
That was one name that Parker didn’t have to struggle to remember. In the trial that followed the downing of Pan Am 103, he saw the little man sitting in the dock. He looked like a college student with long, curly hair and ink-dark eyes framed by similar colored eyebrows. Unlike a college student, however, he hadn’t a speck of kindness in him. Like some few men, al-Megrahi surely had no mother and must have been born to the fate of an orphan, for if he had a mother he would have some capacity to comprehend the true brutality of his acts. Parker studied him for days. A few years in prison and then he was set free. It took the cancer years to catch up to him. Some thought that with the death of his protector, Mu‘ammar Gadhafi, an overdose of morphine had done what the Scots had not been willing to do. He had received what 270 souls had not. A simple death.
Parker raised a hand to interrupt. “Do you have any idea why al-Megrahi was released?”